#i care...i care...if no one does i will...

[puppppppppy]

eos pt. 1

[abbzloves]

Hear me out.

The more we learn about Sylus, the more I think he is still a dragon.

The rumours when MC first comes to the N109 zone saying that he had wings and big teeth? Dragon. Rumours he was celebrating his 90th birthday? Dragon. The way he hordes things and his greed? Dragon. The birthday event saying that he shows his affection and love like a predator and animal? Dragon. He still remembers their past? Dragon. His facial features being sharp, and his inner eye corners? Dragon.

EVEN HIS DAMN VOICE SOUNDS LIKE A GROWL!

Sylus was very clearly abandoned by his family. Too human, but also, not human enough. Never fitting in. Never good enough.

Sylus, however, is loving. He was never provided with enough love or support, so, knowing Sylus, he decided to do the opposite. He learned how much he was hurt in his “past life” and how MC was hurt as well and decided to turn around and show unconditional love. His attachment style is so secure, he’s confident and reliable, he supports the autonomy of those around him that he cares about and never allows them to feel not good enough. He never allows them to feel like they don’t belong.

He never forces himself into her life, after he learns that she truly does not remember him. That she was disgusted by him. He gives her time and space. He allows her to come to him. Though I’m sure his greed makes him want to take all of her time and attention and affection, he resists it. He is even willing to leave her life if she wishes.

Even when she was trying to find the aether core, Sylus knew about her. But he let her come to him first. He let her make that decision. He left breadcrumbs to lead her, Elysium being the prime example. It was her decision. Her choice.

She’s also the one that always initiates the physical affection first. He always allows her to kiss him first, he doesn’t want to make her feel pressure.

If I were to place a bet, he would have built Onychinus as a place where he and mc could belong. Where all of the misfits of the world could feel safe.

He is such a kind person. He is such a green flag. I love him your honour!

Edit: there is more. The Lost Oasis card clearly hinted at him still being a dragon! Especially when MC was doodling him as a wanderer and he added horns and a tail-

[sapphikatara]

this is the worst fucking day of my life, and yet i am not surprised in the slightest.

toph is an icon for disabled people. she’s one of so few blind characters who is a hero and whose disability is not her weakness or fatal flaw. while it does make her life harder, as any disability does, it also gives her strength. she is the greatest earthbender of her generation. she invented a whole new subsection of bending. the people behind the live action production had a chance to make history just by doing the bare minimum: casting a blind actress to play a blind character. they couldn’t even do that.

not only that, but they’re making her “slightly more feminine” to “humanize” her. as if there weren’t so many young girls out there who looked up to toph because she was weird and didn’t fit the mold. in “tales of ba sing se” she tells katara, “i don’t care what i look like. i’m not looking for anyone’s approval. i know who i am.” to have a female character who doesn’t conform to beauty standards is so important especially right now with the prevalent beauty influencer culture.

while the original cartoon’s representation of women wasn’t perfect, it was diverse. katara and ty lee were both feminine. they liked to dress up and look pretty. toph is not feminine. she grew up forced to dress in formal clothes and style herself a certain way and decided to liberate herself from that. all three of these women are incredibly strong and incredibly talented at what they do, and none of that is impacted by their appearance or gender presentation.

every day, my hatred for the netflix version of avatar grows.

[lupinqs]

THE TONIGHT SHOW ━━ paige bueckers x actress!reader

☆ ━ summary: a talk show, an after party, and far too much champagne leads paige bueckers straight to you.

☆ ━ word count: 9.5K

☆ ━ warnings: smut (scissoring, oral, fingering)

☆ ━ links: my masterlist

☆ ━ author’s note: shameless timmy chalamet cameo because i love him…. anyways that pic with p and the champagne single-handedly revived my writing

THE DRESSING ROOM is loud, but in a muted way—voices murmuring over each other, flat irons hissing like snakes, the faint thump of bass through the walls as the Tonight Show band rehearses. You’re sitting in a high-backed chair, eyes half-lidded, a stylist brushing highlighter onto your cheekbone while someone else carefully curls the ends of your hair. You’re barely paying attention, letting yourself be fussed over like a human Barbie. You’re used to it by now.

Timothée’s sprawled on the little velvet couch behind you, legs hanging over the arm like a spider that’s given up. He’s buzzing, as usual, knee bouncing, fingers drumming against his thigh. You love him, but he never seems to run out of energy. You glance at him in the mirror as he tosses a piece of popcorn in the air and catches it with his mouth. Barely.

“Missed,” you mutter.

He gasps like you insulted his lineage. “Just untruthful.”

You grin, but your attention shifts. Something itches in your brain—some piece of information you forgot to check.

“What’s the lineup tonight?” you ask, voice pitched slightly above the hum around you.

The girl doing your hair, her name’s Rachel you think, nods absently as she wraps another section around the curling iron. “Rami Malek’s first, then you two. Oh, and I think Paige Bueckers has a little cameo. She’s crashing the monologue but doesn’t have an interview.”

Timothée sits up like he’s just heard his name. “Ohhh, because they won the natty, right?”

Rachel nods, unfazed. “Yeah. She’s just doing a little bit with Jimmy to start the show. Real quick thing.”

“Damn,” Timothée whistles low, like he’s genuinely impressed. “She a hooper, for real. I wanna meet her.”

You roll your eyes playfully but don’t say anything right away. Of course you know who Paige Bueckers is. Everyone does right now.

A few days ago, you watched her team win the national championship. You weren’t at home or anything sentimental—just curled up in your trailer between night shoots, a bowl of cereal in your lap and your assistant’s login for ESPN on your phone. But you’d watched her. The way she moved. The way she led.

You’re not a basketball diehard by any means, but the big stuff? You pay attention. And Paige is big. A name on the rise. A face that teenage girls across America are scribbling in the margins of their notebooks, reposting edits of on TikTok, screaming about like she’s Harry Styles during prime One Direction days. The girl’s got motion.

You don’t know what it is about her. Maybe it’s the way she smiles when she’s caught off guard or how she carries herself like she doesn’t care at all what anyone thinks. Or maybe it’s just the fact that she’s hot and tall and athletic and entirely too marketable.

Timothée tosses another piece of popcorn into his mouth. “What do you think she’s like?”

You laugh, rolling your eyes a little. Your co-star loves sports and Paige has been the biggest name in them this week. “I don’t know. Cool, probably.”

He nods along, chewing his popcorn. “Well, duh. She’s an athlete. They’re all cool.” (Case in point.)

You nod slowly, lips parting but not quite moving yet. You’ve been in rooms with world-famous people, with actors who have Oscars and musicians who have egos the size of planets. But there’s something about athletes—especially ones who just won something. There’s a heat to them, a freshness. Like they’re alive in a way everyone else is pretending to be.

“D’you think she’ll still be here after the show?” Timothée asks curiously. “Maybe at the after-thing?”

You hum, noncommittal.

But secretly, you hope so too.

Not that you’re planning anything. Not that it matters. You’re just curious.

That’s all.

And then—it’s time for rehearsal. Nothing new. You and Timothée are ushered through narrow hallways that smell faintly of hairspray and cold brew, past stagehands with headsets and clipboards. Jimmy’s warm-up guy gives you a quick wave. Someone hands you a printout with a few of the pre-cleared talking points: talk about the shoot in Italy, Timothée’s improv moment in the cafe scene, your character’s breakdown, funny story about the crying scene.

The usual fluff.

You barely glance at it. You and Timmy have done this song and dance enough times to know that the real magic happens when you ignore the cards and just talk.

Still, you sit side by side on the little couch in the green room, tossing lines back and forth as if you’re already on air.

“Okay,” Timmy says, clearing his throat in an exaggerated newscaster voice. “Tell me, what was it like doing another film where all you do is cry?”

You snort. “Life-changing. I mean, I think I’ve really got it down now. You, on the other hand…”

“Hey!” he clutches his chest dramatically. “I cried some beautiful tears.”

“Uh-huh.”

You’re both still laughing as the stage manager pokes her head in. “We’re about to get to your segment. Paige just finished her bit.”

At the mention of her name, something flickers in your chest—quick and sharp, like a spark. You don’t know why. You don’t even know her. You just saw her on TV a few days ago, limbs outstretched and screaming at the buzzer with the rest of her team swarming her like bees to honey.

Now she’s here, in the building. Probably just down the hall.

Timothée, of course, notices your shift. “You nervous?” he teases, nudging your shoulder.

You shake your head. “Nah.”

You don’t elaborate.

The rest of it happens fast.

They mic you up, fluff your hair one last time, and lead you through the wings toward the main stage. Jimmy’s voice floats through the air as he wraps up a bit with the band. The audience laughs, and the floor vibrates faintly with applause.

“Alright,” Jimmy grins, turning toward the camera. “Coming up next, two of my favorite people!” He calls your name and then Timothée’s, ushering you both onto the stage.

The applause swells like a wave. The music kicks in. You walk out with Timmy beside you, the lights hitting hard and hot, but you don’t flinch. You smile. You wave. You hug Jimmy and sit down on the couch, legs crossed, posture perfect. Timmy hams it up immediately, pointing at the crowd and then at you like, can you believe this woman? The audience eats it up.

It’s easy. Familiar. You talk about the movie. Timmy tells the story of how the gelato stand you filmed at got mobbed by fans. You talk about a scene that took eight takes because the wind kept flipping your hair into your mouth. Jimmy laughs too hard. The audience claps on cue.

And somewhere, offstage—maybe leaning against a wall or scrolling through her phone—Paige Bueckers is watching.

Maybe.

Not that it, like, matters.

PAIGE ISN’T USED to feeling like this.

She’s good with people. Always has been. Her dad used to say she could talk to a brick wall and get it to smile. She knows how to work a room, can flip the switch between lowkey and charismatic like it’s nothing. And normally, this kind of party would be her sweet spot—music pulsing, champagne in hand, famous people milling around.

But she’s been a little overwhelmed—and who can blame her? The last few days have been a whirlwind—interviews, flights, appearances, more interviews. Since the natty win, her world’s been spinning faster than usual, and not even her extroversion can keep up with the pace forever.

She’s grateful that Azzi and Kaitlyn are here with her. They’re posted up by the bar, all of them sipping champagne and trying to stay nonchalant, even though they just met Alicia Keys and Azzi legitimately had to walk away before she burst into tears.

“She said she watched the game,” Kaitlyn says, shaking her head in disbelief and swirling her glass.

“She said she loved my jumper,” Paige deadpans.

Paige lets the conversation blur around her, her eyes scanning the room over the rim of her glass. It’s crowded with beautiful, wildly successful people. She recognizes singers, actors, athletes. Everyone smells expensive and looks like they floated in from a campaign shoot.

Then she sees you.

You’re wearing a black dress that makes her blink twice. It clings in all the right places, dips a little lower than should be legal, and your hair is tucked behind one ear like you���re unaware of how gorgeous you look. Or maybe you are aware. Maybe that’s the point.

You’re deep in conversation with Kylie Jenner, who’s leaning in close, sipping on something pink and fizzy. Timothée Chalamet is perched beside you, laughing at something Kylie says, his hand tapping against her hip.

You look… perfect. Fuckable. Edible. Paige knows that it’s probably disrespectful to think of you like that when she’s never even spoken to you, but—damn—she can’t help herself.

Of course, she recognizes you instantly. She’s seen all your movies. Follows you on Instagram. Knows which photo you posted after the Venice premiere because she may or may not have saved it. She’s watched interviews you’ve done, including the one tonight with Jimmy Fallon and Timothée.

“You should go talk to her,” Azzi says beside her, like she’s been waiting for the moment Paige would finally catch up.

Paige startles slightly. “What?”

“You’ve been staring. Go rub your hands together and rizz her up or something,” Kaitlyn adds, laughing a little at the end. Azzi does, too.

“I haven’t—” Paige scoffs. “Fine, maybe a lil.”

Azzi nudges her with her elbow. “She’s right there. Just go say hi.”

“Yeah, because that won’t be weird. ‘Hi, I’m Paige, I’m a fan, please marry me.’” The blonde gives her best friend a look.

Kaitlyn grins. “You’ve said worse to girls you weren’t obsessed with.”

“I’m not obsessed with her.”

Azzi lifts a brow.

“… I’m just aware of her existence,” Paige mutters into her champagne.

She turns back toward you just in time to catch you laughing at something Kylie says. It’s a real laugh—head tilted back slightly, hand brushing your collarbone. You’re flushed with happiness or alcohol or both. Timothée leans toward you to whisper something in your ear, and you swat him away like a brother, grinning the whole time.

You look like a dream Paige isn’t sure she’s allowed to have.

Azzi nudges her again. “Go.”

“I’m waiting til she’s not surrounded.”

“She’s never not gonna be surrounded. That’s the point of people like her. They orbit.”

Paige sips her drink, hesitating. You glance up—just for a second—and Paige swears you catch her watching. Your gaze flits past, then back again, like you’re registering her face. There’s a pause, something unreadable in your expression, and then Kylie tugs at your wrist and you look away.

Paige exhales. She takes a sip of her champagne. She’s going to stay nonchalant. If she gets the opportunity to talk to you—later, maybe—then she will. But not right now.

Or, well, actually, maybe right now.

Because when she turns her head to look back at where you were previously standing, all she sees is Timothée Chalamet is walking toward the bar.

And you’re by his side.

You’re a few feet away, pausing just short of the counter to place a drink order. You laugh at something Timothée says, one hand resting loosely on the curve of your hip, the other reaching for a cocktail menu you probably won’t read. Paige’s eyes catch on the way your dress rides up just slightly as you lean forward, the way your hair falls over your shoulder, and it’s almost enough to knock the air out of her chest and send heat to her stomach.

She forces herself to look cool, calm. Like she belongs here. Like she’s not actively freaking out about the fact that the actress she might, sort of, maybe be lowkey obsessed with is now ten feet away ordering a drink.

And then it happens.

Timothée glances across the bar, eyes scanning lazily—until they land on her.

His whole face lights up. Like, visibly. Like they’re old friends or something.

“Yoooo! Paige!” he says, grinning, like he’s been waiting all night to spot her.

Paige blinks, actually looks behind her to make sure he means her.

“You’re Paige Bueckers, right?” he continues, already stepping closer. “Yo, I watched the championship game. You’re nasty. Ate them gamecocks up.”

Paige lets out a short laugh, genuinely caught off guard. “You watched?”

“‘Course I did, bro!” His grin widens, like it’s insane she didn’t believe. “I’ve been following y’all forever. Y’all are hoopers.”

Kaitlyn is already whispering to Azzi, probably something like what the hell is happening right now, but Paige tries not to pay attention to that. She holds her champagne glass a little tighter and nods coolly.

“Appreciate it, man. That means a lot,” she says, managing to keep her voice steady. “These are my teammates, Azzi and Kaitlyn.”

Paige watches as Timothée daps both of them up, his whole body buzzing—probably with champagne. “Nice to meet you guys. Love both your games, for real.”

And then Paige sees it—the way his eyes flick back to you as the bartender slides your drink across the counter. You’re turning to say thank you, lifting the glass to your lips. And then, without warning, Timothée reaches out, both hands grabbing onto your shoulders.

“Yo, you gotta meet someone,” he says, steering you gently but decisively in their direction. “Come here.”

You glance over, a little curious but not annoyed, your gaze settling on Paige and her friends as you approach. Paige straightens up slightly—not noticeably, she hopes—but she can already feel the warmth rising in her chest.

“This,” Timothée says, pulling you in beside him, “is Paige Bueckers. Bucketssss!” The way he drags out the second word leads Paige to believe he’s had one too many champagnes.

You smile easily, glossy lips pulling up at the corners. “Yeah, I know who she is.”

Paige feels her brain short-circuit for just a second.

Your voice is soft but certain, laced with that familiar confidence she’s seen in your interviews. And now it’s directed at her.

She nods, flashes a small grin. She hopes she seems chill. “Aye, good to know I’m not invisible.”

You laugh, and Paige swears the whole party sound dips out behind it. “Not even close.”

“This is Azzi and Kaitlyn,” Paige adds, gesturing toward her teammates, desperate to keep the conversation moving so she doesn’t drown in her own nerves.

You offer both of them a quick wave, clearly familiar enough with sports to know names, but you’re focused mostly on Paige now. And that’s dangerous.

Because up close, you’re even more stunning. Your dress dips just slightly in the front, and the shape of your cleavage makes Paige want to forget how to speak English. She reminds herself—she’s fine. She’s got game. She’s been in tougher spots than this.

But your eyes flick down her frame briefly—just a flash—and then back to her eyes. You tilt your head a little, smile. And she thinks, maybe she doesn’t.

“You played great in March, by the way. I saw that forty piece.”

Paige raises a brow, impressed. Her forty piece wasn’t in the natty or Final Four—it was in the Sweet Sixteen. So, maybe you weren’t just watching to watch. Maybe. “You watched that game?”

You shrug, taking another sip of your drink. “I dabble in excellence.”

Timothée lets out a loud drunken laugh beside you, “Dabble in excellence—I’m stealing that.”

Paige’s grin widens. “You can’t just dabble in March.”

“Guess I’m a committed fan, then,” you say casually, and God, you really don’t play fair.

Azzi catches Paige’s eye behind your back, giving her the most painfully obvious oh, you’re screwed face. Paige ignores her entirely.

“Well,” Paige says, lifting her glass toward yours, “cheers, then.”

You clink glasses with her, your fingers brushing against hers briefly. “Cheers.”

And it’s not flirty, not exactly—not yet. But there’s something in the way you’re looking at her now. A spark. An open door. Well, shit.

Paige doesn’t know where this is going, but suddenly she doesn’t care how tired she is or how long this week has been—because you’re standing in front of her in that damn dress, and you know her name, and your smile is enough to knock her off balance in the best possible way.

But, the thing about nights like this is that they never really slow down.

One minute, Paige is thinking she might actually be getting somewhere—that you might actually be into talking to her—and the next, someone who looks vaguely famous (blonde, sequined, expensive) is whisking you and Timothée away with a cheerful, “Come on, you have to meet—!”

You shoot Paige an apologetic little smile as you’re tugged off, mouthing something like sorry!, and then you’re gone. Just like that. The crush of bodies swallows you whole.

And Paige… is left standing there, still gripping her champagne glass like it might offer answers.

Azzi bumps her shoulder. “Paige,” she laughs.

“I’m calm,” Paige lies through her teeth, staring at the spot you were just standing in.

“Uh-huh,” Azzi nods, looking entirely unconvinced, biting her lip to fight another laugh from escaping.

Kaitlyn grins, too. “What’re you thinking?”

“I’m thinkin’,” Paige mutters, taking another sip, “that I shoulda said more.”

Azzi snorts. “Nah, you said enough. She was into it.”

Paige gives her a side-eye. “You think?”

“She smiled at you like this.” Azzi does a dramatic, slow-motion head tilt, batting her lashes.

“Stop.” Paige shoves her.

But… yeah, maybe she’s hoping her best friend is a little right about this one thing.

IT’S ALMOST AN HOUR before she sees you again.

In the meantime, she’s made rounds with Azzi and Kaitlyn, posed for some photos, took another flute of champagne, and then promptly lost track of them somewhere around a table filled with sliders and very fancy-looking truffle fries.

She heads to the bathroom just to get a breather, leaning against the marble counter and staring at herself in the mirror for a beat too long.

You’re fine, she tells herself. You’re not twelve. She’s just hot. And famous. And you’re…

She frowns. “Also hot. And famous,” she says out loud, trying to hype herself up. It doesn’t work. She’s never really cared about either of those things.

And, of course, the mirror—as expected—doesn’t respond.

She leaves the bathroom and steps back into the party, only to find that Azzi and Kaitlyn have fully vanished. Not just moved—vanished. Gone without a trace. It’s not that big of a room, but the lights are low, and the music is louder now, and she’s weaving through the crowd like she’s suddenly in a dream sequence.

Then—

“Your teammates ditch you?”

The voice comes from behind, low and familiar, and Paige freezes before she turns.

You.

You’re standing there holding an empty glass, still looking so fucking fine in that damn dress, your weight shifted to one hip and an amused tilt to your head like you might already know the effect you’re having on her.

Paige blinks once. “Uh…”

You stare.

She clears her throat, pulling herself together. “Yeah. Seems like they did.”

You nod, tapping the side of your glass. “It’s okay. I was ditched too.”

She laughs softly, eyes flicking down to the floor and then back to you. “Timothée ditched you?” She doesn’t add the fact that she thinks anyone ditching you might as well be a crime.

You shrug, scrunching your nose just slightly. “Yeah. He and Kylie left. They’re always escaping to go be nasty together.”

And Paige—

Paige blinks, because the first thought that enters her brain is: you and I can go be nasty together.

And the second thought is: Jesus Christ. What is wrong with me.

She manages to keep a straight face, nodding with a mix of mock solemnity and disgust. “Gross.”

“Very,” you agree, leaning a little closer. “But I guess that makes us the abandoned ones. Left to fend for ourselves in this sea of glitter and Botox.”

Paige chuckles. “Could be worse.”

You smile at her, a dimple popping out of your cheek. “Could definitely be worse.”

There’s a beat. A pause, but not an awkward one. The music swells in the background—some mellow pop remix of a song Paige doesn’t recognize—and your eyes haven’t left hers.

But then they do, glancing at her empty glass. “Out of champagne?”

She looks down like she didn’t realize it. “Apparently.”

You hold up yours, empty too. “Same. Let’s fix that?”

Paige nods, heart ticking up a notch. “Let’s.”

You both drift to the bar again, standing shoulder to shoulder while the bartender takes someone else’s overly complicated drink order. You lean in a little as you wait, not quite touching but close enough that Paige can smell the citrusy perfume on your neck.

“Sooo…” you say, dragging the word out, looking at her sideways and smirking a little. “You’re gon’ be the number one pick next week, yeah?”

Paige feels her face flush a little, blood rushing through her cheeks. The draft. Another thing that’s coming head-on. She’s excited. Grateful, of course. Just… also still a little overwhelmed. It’s okay; she’ll be ready come Monday.

She swallows, shrugging a little. “If that’s in God’s plan for me, then I guess so.”

Your eyes seem to soften a bit at that but before you can respond, the bartender finally turns to you both. Paige puts on her normal smile, ordering two more glasses and sliding her card across the counter before you can even reach for your handbag.

You arch a brow. “Really?”

“Mhm,” she hums, not elaborating. She leans against the bar, looks at you. She hopes she seems smoother than she feels.

Your lips twist into something almost flirtatious. “Fine. But only if I get to buy the next round.”

“You planning on stayin’ that long?”

You tilt your head, gaze sharp and playful. “I don’t know. You planning on making it worth my while?”

And there it is—Paige feels it hit her chest, the full-body flush of oh my God, this is happening.

She plays it cool. Leans in just a little. “I might.”

You hold her gaze for a moment. The drinks arrive. You both take a sip, and something simmers in the space between you.

“Okay then,” you say softly. “Show me what you’ve got, PB.”

THE DRINKS GO DOWN easily. Too easily, maybe.

Because—one minute, Paige is flirting with you at the bar, and the next, you’re both in the family restroom.

It’s a nice bathroom. Like, really nice. Too nice for what’s about to happen in it.

There’s a changing table, a comfy little chair in the corner, even a soft-glow light coming from behind the mirror. It smells like eucalyptus.

Paige watches as you push the lock in with a soft click. You move then, stepping right into her space.

She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t even think.

Her mouth is on yours before either of you says a word.

It’s hot. Messy in the way champagne makes everything feel a little blurred and desperate. Paige’s hands find your waist, pulling you closer and pushing you until your back hits the edge of the sink. You’re kissing her like you’ve been waiting all night to, and Paige is still trying to keep her cool but—God, the way you taste, the way you’re tugging at the open collar of her flannel—it’s a lot.

Paige slips her tongue into your mouth, licking around, tasting. You make a low sound when she sucks lightly on your bottom lip and Paige feels it everywhere.

“Fuck,” you mumble and Paige manages to laugh a little, low and breathless, before tilting your chin up to kiss you deeper.

Paige’s head spins a little.

How did she even get here?

She’s in a family restroom. At a celebrity afterparty. With you. Famous, perfect, actress you, whose Instagram she’s stalked more times than she’ll ever admit. And now you’re as close as possible, your tongue tangled with hers.

This can’t even be real.

And yet—your mouth moves to her jaw, kissing along it in slow, maddening lines, and Paige grips the edge of the sink behind you because if she doesn’t hold onto something, she might just melt into the floor.

You murmur into her neck, “You good?”

She laughs quietly, shakes her head a little. “Yeah,” she mumbles, a little breathless. She reaches for your face again, adding, “C’mere,” pulling you back in.

She kisses you, harder this time, a little reckless. You taste like champagne and mistakes and her own disbelief. And strawberry lip gloss. The same strawberry lip gloss that she’s essentially sucked off.

Your fingers slip beneath the hem of her flannel, lightly tracing the skin above her waistband, and it makes her hips twitch forward before she can stop it. You feel it. Smirk into the kiss.

“Easy, Bueckers,” you tease, lips brushing hers.

Paige swears something explodes behind her ribs. Like a firework. Or a panic attack. Or both.

She groans, kissing you again—if she doesn’t keep doing it, she might lose her mind. Her hands move back to your waist, grabbing you, your dress wrinkling slightly beneath the grip of her palms. You kiss her deeper, mouth open and needy, teeth grazing the blonde’s lip.

Paige’s hands slide lower, palms skimming down the curve of your back, fingers trailing over the fabric of your dress until they land—firmly, confidently—on your ass. She gives a slow squeeze, exhaling lowly at the feeling. You make a soft sound, too, and it nearly sends her spiraling.

Paige feels you press closer to her, your leg nudging between hers slightly. Her pulse picks up like she’s got two seconds left on the shot clock and the ball’s in her hands.

Her hands palm at you again, trying to memorize the shape of you. At the feeling, you pull back just enough to speak, lips kiss-swollen and spit-slick, eyes a little glossy.

“D’you wanna leave?” you ask, voice low and slightly breathless.

Paige’s mouth instinctively moves to your jaw, kissing there, slow and a little greedy. She hums against your skin. “Where would we go?”

You tip your head back slightly, exposing your neck to her in a way that drives her insane. “Back to mine?”

And—fuck.

That snaps something within Paige.

She stills for a half-second. Not pulling away. Just taking a moment. Letting that sentence sit in the air between you two.

Back to yours.

You. Your apartment. You, a little tipsy and flushed and stunning and clearly just as into this as she is.

How in the hell?

This doesn’t happen to her. Sure, she’s fucked a good amount of girls on campus. Sure, she’s got a lot of fans that edit her. But this? You? The girl with the Oscar buzz and the actual fame and that little black dress that’s been driving her out of her mind all night?

All she can think is—thank God for that natty.

She kisses you again, deep and hungry and like that answers the question for her.

You smile into it, pulling back just slightly, lips grazing hers as you ask, “Yeah?”

And Paige—grinning now, breath uneven, hands still resting on your ass, fingers skimming the back of your thighs because your dress is so short—says against your mouth, “Oh, yeah.”

You laugh, and it’s giddy and bright and sounds like bells. Paige wants to hear it again.

But then you’re both moving. You smooth your dress, pulling it down a little, fixing your lipgloss in the mirror with a lazy swipe of your finger. Paige straightens her flannel and tightens her ponytail, trying not to look like she was just seconds away from doing something very vile in a public restroom.

You unlock the door. Step out first.

Paige follows, hand brushing the small of your back before she shoves it in her pocket, like if she doesn’t, she’ll touch you again in front of everyone.

You both re-enter the noise and chaos of the party like nothing happened. Paige sends a quick text to Azzi and Kaitlyn—wherever they are—telling them of where she’s going.

You catch her eye over your shoulder as you lead the way toward the exit. And Paige just follows—completely, hopelessly, happily gone.

YOU TAKE THE SUBWAY.

You could’ve called a car—should’ve, probably—but it just feels easier like this. It’s late, the platform is as quiet as it is all day, and there’s something a little funny about a famous actress and a famous basketball player going home on the subway following a celebrity afterparty. You half expect her to complain or hesitate, but she doesn’t. She stays right beside you the whole time. Close, like she needs to feel the heat from your skin.

You feel the same. It’s almost like your skin might catch fire if she gets any nearer.

You don’t talk much, just a few soft jokes between stations. Stuff like:

“Are the subways usually this dirty?”

“Paige.”

And:

“People are staring.”

“Yeah. At you.”

“Mm. Doubt it.”

“You’re holding the pole like it owes you money, Bueckers. You’re not exactly blending in.”

(Clearly, Paige is not a New Yorker.)

She laughs at that, quietly, and you watch her from the corner of your eye.

You didn’t plan this. At all.

When the girl doing your makeup mentioned Paige Bueckers would be popping into the Tonight Show monologue, you’d barely reacted. Just filled it away. You knew who she was, of course—who doesn’t, at this point? You’re not deep into basketball, more of a casual watcher, but she’s impossible to ignore. A little golden, a little unreal.

You definitely didn’t expect to be on your way home with her a few hours later.

But then Timmy geeked out. Saw her at the bar, dragged you to meet her. Said her name with this over-the-top awe as if he isn’t ten times more famous than her. You’d just laughed and let him, not thinking too much about it—until you got close.

And then, yeah, you understood.

She’s hot.

Like, obviously. She’s tall, strong, stupidly pretty in a way that seems both entirely effortless and at the same time a little intentional. Her posture alone—the confidence in her stature—made you straighten up, and you put on your best perfectly casual acting face for moments when you don’t feel quite as casual as you should.

But it wasn’t just her appearance.

She’s kind. That was clear right away. Not performative or trying too hard. Just nice. And funny, in a dry way. Quick with the side comments. Self-aware. And slightly, slightly nervous around you, which you can’t lie—you like. It’s endearing.

There’s this quiet little tension between you now. A hum under the surface. Every time your knees brush on the subway bench, you feel it spike. She keeps glancing at your legs like she’s trying not to, like she doesn’t realize you’ve already caught her twice.

You don’t say anything. You just sit there and let it build.

The ride doesn’t last long. Your stop comes faster than expected, and Paige follows you off the train without a word.

It’s chilly outside. The city’s quieter than usual, but not silent. It never is. You walk a block to your building, Paige’s steps in rhythm with yours, and when you glance over at her under the streetlight, she looks down and gives you a half-smile. It makes your chest tighten a little. Like something you didn’t know was there is trying to make itself known.

Inside your building, you greet the doorman, who gives you a knowing look that you ignore. Paige nods politely. She’s got that people-pleaser charm—you can tell.

The elevator is slow. Old. You both step in and the doors close with a soft thunk.

You hit the button for your floor. Then, the air shifts.

There’s a pause—quiet but heavy. The kind of silence that makes you feel the other person. Paige stands just a little too close. Not aggressively. Just… aware. The distance between you isn’t quite respectful. Her arm brushes yours, and neither of you move away.

You stare straight ahead, but your eyes flick sideways every few seconds. She’s doing the same. You can feel it. Like heat. Like static. The air between your bodies buzzes like it’s waiting for permission to break.

The elevator dings.

Your floor.

You step out. She follows. And this time, she’s close enough that you feel the warmth of her breath as she exhales.

You swallow and walk to your door, unlocking it quickly, gingers a little clumsy on the key. Your heartbeat’s in your ears now. Loud.

The door swings open, and you step aside to let her in.

Paige walks in slow. She glances around, taking in the space—it’s nice. You know it is. Acting—well, it makes good money. And your apartment is a reflection of that.

You let her look around, setting your keys down and toeing your shoes off. When you glance back up, she’s watching you.

Neither of you says anything.

You walk over to her slowly.

And Paige—still looking at you like she’s not quite sure how this is real—just stands there, letting you close the space between you.

Your fingers find the hem of her flannel, gently.

“You wanna stay a while?” you ask, voice quiet, casual.

She nods.

And this time, it’s her who kisses you.

Its immediate. The fire. The heat. The way her mouth meets yours like it’s something she’s been dying to do all night—maybe longer. Her lips are warm, soft but urgent, and you can barely keep up with the way she kisses you, like she’s been holding herself back and now there’s no reason to anymore.

You make a sound against her mouth, half gasp, half laugh, and she responds with a low hum, hands already gripping your hips like they’re the only thing keeping her tethered to the Earth.

Your fingers slide up to her shoulders, trying to steer, to hold, to anchor—but you’re barely steady yourself. The two of you stumble back a few steps, laughing breathlessly between kisses as she walks you toward the couch, bumping a wall, into the table, not even caring. Her hand is on your lower back, guiding you—no, pushing you—and you let her, let her press you into her, let her kiss you like she knows exactly what she wants and exactly where she wants it.

It’s messy. Hands moving with no direction, your bodies pressing into each other like you’ve already forgotten you’re in your own damn apartment. Her mouth moves from your lips to your neck for half a second and you feel your knees weaken a little. You bite your lip, grab her jaw, kiss her harder. It’s so much, too much—but not enough.

You gasp against her mouth, “Wait—bed,” and she pulls back, just a breath away, eyes wide and dark and already a little wild.

“Yeah,” she says, already reaching for your hand, letting you pull her because she’s not familiar with the space.

You thought maybe you’d end up… here. The couch. The floor. Whatever. But no—you make it to the bedroom, somehow. Still kissing, still giggling in these little gasps when you bump into furniture. Still fumbling. Still grabbing.

Once you’re there, you push her down onto the bed, your palms flat on her chest. She goes easily, grinning up at you as her back hits the mattress. She’s breathing hard. So are you.

You crawl into her lap, settling your thighs on either side of hers, letting her hands immediately go to your waist again—strong, sure now. Her fingers grip you tighter than before. She’s steadier. More confident. And it’s really fucking attractive.

You bend down and kiss her again, slower this time but just as deep, just as desperate. Her hands slide up your back, over your spine, under the hem of your dress, wandering. You don’t stop her. You don’t want to.

And God, the way she moves underneath you. The way she kisses you now—like she’s not nervous anymore. Like she’s got you, and she knows it.

Your lips trace down, slow and hungry, grazing her skin like you want to memorize every part of her. Her jaw. The curve of her throat. The warm spot just beneath her ear. You suck lightly at first, then a little harder when you feel her shift beneath you—when her grip tightens and her breath gets heavier.

She mutters something low and strained, a quiet “Christ,” that sends a pulse right through you.

Her hands slide under your tiny dress. You feel her fingers splay across the back of your thighs before moving your, gripping your ass in a way that’s both firm and reverent. Like she’s still shocked you’re even here, straddling her, touching her. You groan softly against her neck, sinking your teeth gently into her skin there before pulling back with a kiss.

Your focus shifts to her flannel. The sparkly thing that you think probably only she can pull off. You eye it, fingers fumbling a bit as you reach for the buttons. She doesn’t move to help you at first. Just keeps her hands right where they are, thumbs brushing slow, distracting circles as she watches you with this little smirk.

You finally get the last button undone and she shrugs it off, tossing it across the room. She’s left in a black Nike sports bra and cargos and somehow still looks like maybe the hottest person you’ve ever seen in your life—and, seriously, you’ve seen a lot of hot people.

Your hands run up her bare abs, firm beneath your palms, before she pulls you back down like she can’t go another second without your mouth on hers.

This kiss isn’t sweet or exploratory. It’s flat-out hungry. Like now she’s got permission to take her time and take her fill. Her hands are back on you again, sliding lower, gripping tighter, pulling you down into her until your whole body is flush with hers. You can feel the heat of her skin through the fabric between you, the tension that’s been simmering since the moment your eyes met hours ago now boiling over.

You grind into her without even thinking, and the way her breath stutters against your mouth makes your whole body buzz.

You chuckle, soft and breathless, pulling back just enough to look at her. Her lips are kiss-bitten, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide.

“Okay?” you whisper.

“Mm,” she hums before pulling you back into her quickly like she was offended you pulled away at all in the first place.

You respond immediately, tongue sliding against hers, teeth clashing. Her hands are everywhere. Your hips roll against hers instinctively, your breath catching every time her fingers dig into your skin or slide along your thighs. It’s hot and heavy and dizzying in the best way.

At some point, she pulls back just slightly, lips parted, gaze hungry. She looks down at the way your dress rides yo as you move against her and then back up at you like she’s barely holding it together.

“Can I take it off?” she asks, voice low, almost hoarse. Her hands pull at the fabric a little. “Needa see you.”

There’s this desperate kind of honesty in the way she says it that shoots straight through you. You not without even thinking, already helping her—grabbing at the hem of the dress, pulling it over your head, tossing it blindly across the room.

It lands somewhere near the door. Neither of you cares.

Now, you’re in nothing but your lacy black thong (thank God you decided to wear a sexy pair of underwear today, seriously), straddling her, skin flushed and warm and bare to her, and when Paige looks at you—really looks at you—she groans under her breath. Head falls back for a second like she needs to reset, eyes fluttering before they lock onto you again, darker than before, icy blue mixing with the black of her enlarged pupils.

“Shit,” she mutters, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs to your waist, then higher. “You’re—”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to.

She pulls you down to her again, but this time her mouth doesn’t go to your lips. Instead, she kisses across your chest, slow at first, open-mouthed and warm. Her rough palms hold you firm against her, fingers splaying along the swell of your ass as her lips move down. And then her mouth closes around one of your nipples, sucking—lightly at first, just enough to make you twitch in surprise—and then again, a little harder, her breath hot where it fans out.

You exhale shakily, fingers fumbling with her hair tie before undoing it, letting her ponytail fall loose. She looks up at you for just a second, grinning like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you.

And she keeps kissing across your chest and tits, mouth open and warm and purposeful. Her lips drag over the swell of you, her tongue flicking occasionally at your nipples like she’s trying to memorize the way you taste, the way you react. And you do react—your back arches, your hands tighten in her hair, and your hips roll forward against her without even thinking about it.

She hums in response, low and satisfied. The sound vibrates against your skin. Her fingers tighten at your waist, holding you in place, guiding your rhythm.

“Fuck,” she murmurs against you. “Don’t stop doin’ that.”

You don’t.

You move against her with a little more purpose, the friction sending a slow burn through your body. Her hands are hot and strong where they grip you, and her mouth doesn’t let up. She kisses over the curve of one of your tits, up to your collarbone, then back down, her breath shaky now too. She’s unraveling under you, even if she’s trying not to show it.

But you’re unraveling, too. Fast.

You let her mouth linger a little longer, let yourself feel every second of it—and then you’re tugging away from her, chest rising and falling a little too fast. Her eyes flick open, meeting yours, a silent question in them.

“I need…” you trail off, already reaching down.

She gets it. She shifts under you, lifting her hips as you start pulling at her cargo pants. She helps, fumbling a little in the rush to get them off, and her boxers come with—unintentional, but neither of you is complaining.

Paige leans up, kissing you again—a little slower now, a little more sensual. Tongues sliding and tangling languidly. There’s a kind of reverence in it now, like she’s savoring. You’re straddling her still, one knee braced beside her bare thigh, your chest still flushed and wet from her mouth, your breathing uneven. Her hands are at your hips, fingers flexing like she can’t decide whether to hold on tighter or let herself get lost in the feel of you completely.

Her fingers drift along, ghosting along the hem of your thong. She pauses, just barely.

“Can I?” she asks lowly. It’s respectful; you like that.

You nod, already leaning in. “Yeah,” you say softly. “Yeah, Paige.”

She kisses you once more—quick, urgent—before sliding her hands down, easing your underwear over your hips, your thighs. You lift just enough to help her, and she works them off completely, tossing them to join the growing pile of clothes somewhere on the floor.

And then she pulls you down again. Fully. Flush against her.

You gasp quietly at the contact, your bare cunt pressed to hers, the heat and slick between you unmistakable now.

Paige groans quietly, head dropping to your shoulder, arms wrapping tight around your waist as she holds you to her. Her hands splay wide across your lower back, like she needs to ground herself in the feeling of you there. Her lips brush against the curve of your neck, and you feel her smile just barely.

“Fuck, ma, you’re killin’ me here,” she mumbles into your skin.

You laugh, breathless. “Pretty sure you started it.”

Her hand drifts lower, palming your ass, her mouth now back on your jaw. “And I’mma finish it.”

Her words send a jolt through your stomach. And then she’s shifting beneath you, hips twitching up against yours, your slick clits bumping. Her palms guide you, moving you against her with slow, grinding pressure.

It’s instinct more than choreography. Your bodies find the rhythm together, messy and hot and overwhelming.

You let out a sound—something caught between a sigh and a moan—and she tightens her grip like she’s trying to draw more out of you. Her eyes are glazed over, locked on yours, and there’s a kind of quiet desperation in them that makes you grind down against her harder.

“Fuck, that—” you gasp a little as she shifts her angle, her pussy hitting yours just right. “Right there, Paige—”

She groans, pulling you down so your forehead is resting against hers, your lips brushing. You can feel her breath against your mouth, fast and shallow. You can hear the slick, vile sounds of your wetness against hers filling the room.

“Keep going,” she mumbles. “You feel so good, just—don’t stop.”

You nod, can’t even form a real answer, just roll your hips against her again, and again, chasing the way her body feels under yours, the way her mouth keeps finding your throat, your jaw, your shoulder. Her skin is slick with sweat, her hair dampening, sticking to her forehead.

You’re both panting heavily now, bodies moving in sync, heat building between you like it’s alive. The room spins a little around the edges, your heart pounding so loud it feels like the only thing you can hear besides Paige’s voice, the occasional moan, and the rustle of sheets.

She grips your waist and rocks up into you, and the pressure makes your vision blur.

“Shit,” you breathe.

Paige laughs under her breath, low and ragged. “Mm. I—I know.”

Everything begins to sharpen around you and you lean in, kissing Paige as hard as you can—teeth clashing, mouths open and desperate. Every roll of your hips, every sound that escapes either of your lips, every gasp and half-muttered name. Her hands hold you so tight you think she might leave bruises—you don’t care. Your cunts are warm and wet and swollen, sliding messily enough to get each other’s arousal on both of your thighs.

It builds fast. Hot and tight in your chest, in your stomach, in the way you’re grinding against her now—faster, harder, needing more, needing her. She’s right there with you, her mouth pressed to the side of your neck, her voice rough and muffled against your skin.

“God, you’re—” she chokes out, breath stuttering. “You feel—shit, I’mma—”

“Paige,” you mewl.

She nods, biting at your throat a little.

That’s all it takes.

Everything inside you snaps. White heat floods your senses and you fall into it, trembling and moaning against the blonde, your whole body shuddering as you come, pressed tight against her. Paige follows right after, hips stuttering, arms wrapped tight around your waist as she falls apart with you.

You collapse against her—completely boneless, your cheek pressed to the curve of her shoulder. Paige’s arms stay around you, her chest rising and falling in sharp bursts against yours, skin slick with sweat.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. You just breathe. Skin damp, thighs sticky. Hair in your face. Her heartbeat thudding loud under your ear.

Then she rolls, gently shifting you onto your back and settling between your legs again. Her body rests over yours, her nose nudging your jaw before she starts trailing wet kisses along your neck and shoulder.

You hum at the feeling, the pads of your fingers trailing down the side of her arm. “Feels good,” you murmur lazily, eyes half shut.

Paige chuckles against your skin, lips brushing just beneath your jaw. “Yeah?”

You nod slowly, watching as she lifts her head just enough to smirk at you, her eyes heavy-lidded and bright. Then, without breaking eye contact, her hand moves lower—slow, easy. You don’t even realize where it’s going until you feel it between your thighs, her fingers sliding between your slick folds, pressing lightly against your sensitive clit, confident and sure.

Your breath catches.

Paige leans up, her mouth just by your ear. “Can you gimme another?”

You blink at the ceiling for a second, trying to form a coherent thought. She was nervous before, you could tell, and now she’s so damn sure. You turn your head to see her. Her expression is intense—she looks almost like she would devour you if she could. Her fingers stay resting on your clit, unmoving with the slightest bit of pressure. The touch alone makes your skin feel like it’s buzzing.

You swallow. “Mhm. Yeah,” you stumble out.

Paige’s mouth curls into a grin, something between cocky and sweet. “Good girl.”

And then her fingers finally move. She circles your clit—once, twice, three times. Your thighs twitch some, still sensitive from before. Paige reaches down after that, sliding her middle finger inside you. She gives you a moment to adjust before adding a second digit in.

You try to keep it together—you really do—but the way her fingers move in and out, slow and certain, curling just when you need her to… she knows exactly what she’s doing. Her blue eyes flick between where her fingers thrust inside you, covered in your slick, and your face. Her lips are parted, chest rising and falling with the same shallow rhythm as yours. It’s hot in here. You’re sweating. You’re both still breathless, still recovering and already going again.

Your hand tightens your grip on Paige’s bicep as she moves her fingers just a little deeper, her wrist flexing with intention. Your hips twitch up in response, and you catch her smirk as she glances up at you—flushed cheeks, messy blonde hair, a cocky look in her eyes that should be illegal.

“Oh, my God,” you mumble, breath hitching.

She grins, biting her lip as her gaze stays locked on the way your cunt swallows her digits. It’s seems to do something to her because then—quietly, mostly to herself—she murmurs, “Fuck, I gotta taste you.”

You think your breath may stop entirely.

She shifts downward, pressing kisses across your stomach as she goes—soft, almost worshipping. Her fingers never stop moving, scissoring inside you, making it even harder for your lungs to function, and her mouth follows the trail of heat between your thighs.

Her tongue flicks out, swiping between your folds. You shudder at the feeling. Simultaneously, her fingers keep working you open, skilled, like she’s mapping out every reaction she gets. The combination of both is almost too much. You can’t help it—you grip at her hair, threading your fingers through the soft strands and tugging when she does something particularly good—which is often.

And she notices. Of course she does.

Paige hums against you, just enough vibration to make your thighs tremble. Then she glances up at you—barely, eyes hooded, teasing. “Don’t tap out on me yet, ma.”

Your eyes roll back at the nickname and the feeling of her fingers hitting that spongy spot inside you. You let out a breath that’s half a laugh, half a moan. “I—I’m not,” you say, trying to convince both her and yourself.

Her grin flashes, all pride and playfulness, before she dives back in—lips slick, tongue slow and focused. Her mouth wraps around your clit and sucks deliberately while her fingers curl inside you just right. You feel yourself fall deeper into it, into her, one hand pressing to the back of Paige’s head like you don’t want her to go anywhere.

You don’t. You really, really don’t.

She speeds up just a little, coaxing another sound from you, and your hips lift off the bed involuntarily. “God, I—”

That earns you another smirk against your skin, and she doesn’t stop. She’s locked in—and she’s not letting up until she gets everything she wants.

So, she keeps going.

Even when your hips stutter and your lungs stumble. Even when your hands slip from her hair to the pillow, fingers flexing and grasping at anything to hold you down. Even when you whimper something that barely sounds like her name.

Paige doesn’t stop.

Her mouth is certain, her tongue sliding through your folds, up and down across your clit. You feel like you’re melting into the mattress, boneless, trembling, completely at her mercy. Her fingers never lose rhythm, continuing their thrusts, and you vaguely wonder if her hand is cramping yet.

At one point, you hear her murmur something against your cunt, too muffled to catch.

“What?” you gasp, barely managing the word.

She lifts her head slightly, lips shining, and says, “Said you taste really fuckin’ good. Can’t get enough of you.”

And then her mouth is right back on you, her head shaking back and forth as her tongue follows the movement across your swollen clit. You make a sound that isn’t even close to human. It’s almost too much. The way she licks into you with purpose, the way her hand holds your thigh down like you might actually float away, the way her fingers keep coaxing more out of you like it’s her only mission.

“You’re—Paige, fuck, you’re…” You can’t even finish the thought. Can’t form words. Cant think straight. And she loves it. You can tell in the way she groans lowly into you, like you’re the best meal she’s ever had, like she’s the one getting off.

It’s so good. It’s too good.

Her fingers start pumping harder and faster, a white ring forming around them. Paige is unrelenting; she can probably tell that the coil deep in your belly is preparing to snap. She wraps her lips around your bud again, sucking and sucking and sucking.

“Paige—” you gasp, voice breaking. “I—shit—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” she murmurs, low and husky against you. “C’mon, mama, I gotchu.”

She thrusts again. She lays her tongue flat, shaking it.

That does it.

Everything tightens, your whole body curling in on itself for one suspended second—before it all shatters. You cry out, hips stuttering, thighs shaking as the orgasm rips through you like a wave, overwhelming and all-consuming. You can’t even think. All you can do is feel. Her. Her mouth. Her fingers. Her voice.

She works you through it, gentle now, easing you down. Only when you’re twitching and completely spent does she finally pull away.

You’re panting. Drenched in sweat. Barely coherent.

And Paige looks… completely wrecked in the best way. Her lips are swollen and pink, her cheeks bright red, her fingers slick. She licks them slowly, not breaking eye contact, cleaning the cum off.

“Good Lord—taste unreal,” she mutters, voice rough. Then, she leans down, kissing the inside of your thigh before crawling back up your body, lazy and satisfied.

When she finally teaches your face, she’s grinning. She kisses you softly, almost sweetly now, brushing her nose against yours as she whispers, “Told you I needed that.”

You shake your head, smiling a little in disbelief, letting her peck your lips one more time before laying on you. Paige is warm and a little damp with sweat, her breathing now steady. You run your fingers lazily along the slope of her shoulder, and she hums a little at the touch, face buried in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent.

For a while, it’s silent. You’re not sure if it’s too late or too early, only that the city outside your window sounds far away.

Paige traces circles on your side with thumb. Slow, soft. Barely there.

“Hey,” you say eventually, voice a little raspy.

“Mmm?”

You glance down, and she shifts just enough to look at you. Her eyes have gone a little sleepy—she looks pretty like this. You think she probably looks pretty all the time, though.

“So, like… Dallas, right?” you ask hesitantly, bringing up the WNBA draft on Monday.

She pauses, and you feel her thumb stop its movement. “I mean, yeah,” she says eventually, her voice quiet, almost careful. It’s not set in stone—but everyone knows. She’s going to Texas.

You nod, stare at the ceiling for a second. You’re not sure if you should say what you’re thinking. You just met her tonight. But… fuck, she was good. And she’s hot. And she’s nice. And she’s funny. And—what’s the harm? “I’m filming a movie there all summer.”

There’s a beat of silence. And then you glance down at her and you watch as she stares at you for a long moment before her lips begin to curl up in the softest, most dangerous smile.

And, oh yeah—you already know. You’re both so screwed.

[bogleech]

"The question was posed, "Why do people continue supporting Trump no matter what he does?" A lady named Bev answered it this way: “You all don't get it. I live in Trump country, in the Ozarks in southern Missouri, one of the last places where the KKK still has a relatively strong established presence. They don't give a shit what he does. He's just something to rally around and hate liberals, that's it, period. He absolutely realizes that and plays it up. They love it. He knows they love it. The fact that people act like it's anything other than that proves to them that liberals are idiots, all the more reason for high fives all around. If you keep getting caught up in "why do they not realize this problem" and "how can they still back Trump after this scandal," then you do not understand what the underlying motivating factor of his support is. It's fuck liberals, that's pretty much it. Have you noticed he can do pretty much anything imaginable, and they'll explain some way that rationalizes it that makes zero logical sense? Because they're not even keeping track of any coherent narrative, it's irrelevant. Fuck liberals is the only relevant thing. Trust me; I know firsthand what I'm talking about. That's why they just laugh at it all because you all don't even realize they truly don't give a fuck about whatever the conversation is about. It's just a side mission story that doesn't matter anyway. That's all just trivial details - the economy, health care, whatever. Fuck liberals. Look at the issue with not wearing the masks. I can tell you what that's about. It's about exposing fear. They're playing chicken with nature, and whoever flinches just moved down their internal pecking order, one step closer to being a liberal. You've got to understand the one core value that they hold above all others is hatred for what they consider weakness because that's what they believe strength is, hatred of weakness. And I mean passionate, sadistic hatred. And I'm not exaggerating. Believe me. Sadistic, passionate hatred, and that's what proves they're strong, their passionate hatred for weakness. Sometimes they will lump vulnerability in with weakness. They do that because people tend to start humbling themselves when they're in some compromising or overwhelming circumstance, and to them, that's an obvious sign of weakness. Kindness = weakness. Honesty = weakness. Compromise = weakness. They consider their very existence to be superior in every way to anyone who doesn't hate weakness as much as they do. They consider liberals to be weak people that are inferior, almost a different species, and the fact that liberals are so weak is why they have to unite in large numbers, which they find disgusting, but it's that disgust that is a true expression of their natural superiority. Go ahead and try to have a logical, rational conversation with them. Just keep in mind what I said here and be forewarned.”

From a facebook post, with a lot of comments from people who actually didn't realize it was like this. Yeah, I grew up knowing these kinds of people too and that's exactly how it is.

[cerusee]

Great tags from @amedetoiles

Hey so am I like the only one who picked up on the parallel between Madame Yu and Jiang Fengmian’s last words to Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian?

Because this is what Madame Yu does:

She hugs and kisses Jiang Cheng, then turns around and tells Wei Wuxian to protect him at all costs

And this is what Jiang Fengmian does:

He strokes Jiang Cheng’s head, then turns to Wei Wuxian and tells him to protect Jiang Cheng

I cannot stress enough that these interactions happen within five pages of each other. Like, Madame Yu is harsher with Wei Wuxian than Jiang Fengmian is, but these are fundamentally the same things. They comfort Jiang Cheng like parents, then they order Wei Wuxian to protect their son.

I’ll never really believe the take that Jiang Fengmian saw Wei Wuxian as a son and favored him over Jiang Cheng because when it came down to it, these were his last words to them. He may have been kinder to Wei Wuxian than Madame Yu was, but fundamentally he never saw him as any more of his own son than she did

[oreo-creampies]

𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮; 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: voyeurism, assistant/sugarbaby!reader, playfully mean(to you)!sugardaddy!ceo!geto, ceo!gojo, taped on vibrator, small butt plug (no anal), edging, window sex, masturbation, squirting on the window, control orgasm, calling suguru sir, service sub!reader, bdsm hints, light begging, dirty talking, heavy praise/light degradation, hints at sharing you, spanking, biting

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧: Suguru squeezing the ass of his cute little assistant. He loves hearing her soft squeal when he does it

Oreo: I’ve been fighting a headache trying to get this one done because I have a night need to be fucked like a whore against a window while gojo watches

Suguru looks past Jin, rock hard beneath the desk. You’re beautiful struggling to maintain your composure. Holding up his hand Jin falls quiet. “Bring me a glass of water.” Smirking when you stiffly stand, clenching your thighs together.

Clenching your thighs together, keeping eyes casted down, clasping your hands in your lap. Biting your lip, fighting for your life not to moan when the vibrator taped to your clit pulses faster.

You’re so close to cumming on Suguru’s sofa with one of his employees explaining their concerns. Soaking your underwear, your cunt clenching nothing. Your ass squeezing the small training plug.

“Yes sir!” Your voice is shaking, your whole body burning, cunt throbbing and tingling from the immense pleasure.

Turning away from Jin’s curious gaze. “As you were saying Mr. Jin.” The vibrations stop, the reprieve is welcoming and disappointing. Your sensitive clit twitches from getting worked up so close and the sudden lack of stimulation.

Opening the fully stocked mini fridge built into the wall, pulling out the bottle of water and a chilled glass from the cabinet beside. The toy vibrates on your soft clit, slapping your hand over your mouth, fighting yourself not to moan.

Ignoring Jin’s drawl, purely focusing on maintaining your slipping composure and not spilling the water. Throwing the plastic bottle into the recycle, grabbing the chilled glass of water, trembling. Getting lost in the sweet pleasure, it vanishes.

Taking a deep breath turning around to face your sugar daddy and his employee. Suguru isn’t looking at you, smiling at Jin. “Thank you for bringing that to my attention, I’ll see to it that’s taken care of, please see yourself out.” Pressing the button under his desk for the doors to slide open.

Jin nods his head, clasping his hands behind his back. “Yes sir, thank you.” Stiffly walking past Jin, grateful he finally leaving. Going around Suguru’s desk. Holding out his glass of water, his warm thick fingers brush your’s.

Pushing himself away from the desk. His thick bulge in his black dress pants, “Good girl, thank you for the water.” Squeezing a handful of your soft ass, you softly gasp, glancing over to where Jin stands on the elevator peering with wide eyes through the closing office doors.

Suguru massages your cheek. the toy vibrate on your soft clit. “Don’t cum, not yet.” Standing up, grabbing your jaw, gently prying you mouth open with his thumb. Taking a sip and spitting it into your mouth. “Swallow, but you can’t cum yet.”

Setting the cup down, unbutton your dress shirt. “Please! I don’t know how much longer I cannnn!” Clenching your trembling thighs together, knees buckling, legs weak. You grab onto Suguru’s hard, thick bicep.

Getting off on his massive height, unable to stop thinking of fat cock he has for you underneath his pants. Stroking his cock through his pants. “A little bit longer, you’re so hot squirming, struggling not to cum just to make me happy.” Tugging your skirt down, for you to step out of.

His phone buzzes, whining when Suguru answers, “Nasty pervert, I’ll fuck her against the glass for you to watch.” Putting his phone on speaker on the desk. “She such a slut she will get off on seeing you stroke your cock to her.” Slipping your shirt off, unclasping your bra, he can’t get them off fast enough.

Tears trickle down your face, Suguru wipes away one with his thumb. “Aw my sweet little slut is crying cause she can’t cum yet.” Turning to face the window, grabbing your leg lifting showing Satoru your sloppy wet cunt.

Begging, crying, cunt dripping. “I’m gonna! Please! I can’t hold back! It’s too much.” Grinding your hips back, Suguru’s hard cock pressed against your lower back.

Satoru unzips his pants, dropping them with his underwear, sitting down, squirting lube into his hand. “Fuck she sound hot whining like that.” Suguru turns you to face the window, lifting your legs giving Satoru standing in large window his office a perfect view.

“Cum!” Thick warm cum splashes into the window, trickling onto the ground. Trying to close your legs, shifting trying to get away from the intense stimulation.

Groaning in admiration, gliding two this fingers into you. “Nnn so warm n wet, perfect little cunt for my fat cock to ruin.” Taking the toy off your clit, tugging on the jewel of the butt plugged.

“You’ve been wearing this for two hours let’s give your ass a break. Mm fuck I can’t wait till I can fuck her into a gabbing cum filled mess.” Gliding the plug out of your ass, setting it on his desk.

Suguru crouches, slapping your ass biting your cheek, enticing soft whimpers. Holding onto your hip to steady you. Your head is fuzzy, legs wobbly, you haven’t cummed that hard before. You want more. “Wanna cum again, please sir take care of my needy cunt.” Spreading your legs, and bending over when he dips his head between, lovingly kissing your soft cunt.

Gliding his finger in, getting off on how your soft cunt take his fingers. “You been such a good slut for me, I’ll take such good care of your sweet tight cunt for you. After you can sit in my lap during the meeting. Then we can go home, have a candle lit dinner.” Biting your ass, sucking roughly groaning, pumping his finger faster.

Satoru’s breathy moans coming through the phone. His jerking his cock faster, sliding his hand through his soft white hair, tugging. His mouth dropping open, checks flushing pink. He slows his pace, smirking and winking at you. “You’re such a beautiful dirty whore getting off on watching me jerk off while he plays with your cunt.”

Smiling at Satoru, “I’m a pretty dirty whore who likes it getting fucked in front of you.” Suguru stands up, squeezing your ass, sliding his hand up your waist. Gently playing with your nipple, biting your shoulder. Tilting your head to the side, he trails kisses up

Satoru pleads “Let her press her beautiful slutty ass on the glass. Lemme see your sloppy beautiful cunt and sweet ass.” Looking up at Suguru for his approval, he spins you around on your high heels.

Unbuttoning his shirt, slipping it off. Suguru is beautiful with his thick pecs, sculpted abs, broad shoulders slim waist and fat cock that rests on thick balls. “Let him see what’s gonna be taking good care of my fat cock.” Admiring your sugar daddy, bending over gliding your fingers into your needy cunt.

You want to cum again despite squirting. Suguru and Satoru always bring out an insatiable lust within you. You’d proudly be their cum stuffed whore.

Buzzing the front desk, “Don’t send or allow any calls through until I say otherwise, take a message if it’s urgent thank you.” Pressing your ass to the cold glass, shivering. Playing with your nipples, soft rubbing them, moaning the moment he lets the button go.

Suguru groans, you love the erotic way he sounds. “Nnn fuck send her over when you’re done, I wanna turn. You can put her plug back in. Wanna see her pretty ass stuffed mmm, gonna cover her soft cheeks in cum.” Grabbing Suguru’s cock, when he comes close, kissing his head.

He grabs your hair roughly turning you around, pinning your tits to the glass, keeping your ass out. Lining his fat, veiny cock up, you spread your legs apart pushing your hips back. “If she can walk sure, but you can’t fuck her ass not yet. Im taking her training slow, no reason not to savor perfection.” Spitting on your ass, smearing it with his thumb, gliding it in.

Keeping a firm grasp on your ass, groaning in pure relief. “Nothing else better than being inside you. Nnn making my legs go weak, you’re too perfect.” Grabbing your wrist, holding it behind your back. Offering your other wrist for him to hold together with one large hand.

Oreo’s m.list

[floatyflowers]

Hi, I was wondering if you can do a Dark Male! Maleficent x female reader who is the mother of Aurora?

You were once the beloved of Maleficent, the dark and powerful fae lord, before King Stefan, his closest friend, stole you away, marrying you and making you queen.

When you bear Stefan a daughter, Princess Aurora, Maleficent's betrayed heart turns to vengeance.

He curses the child, ensuring she will die when she pricks her finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel before the sun sets on her 16th birthday and dies.

Merryweather softened the curse so she would only fall into a deep sleep instead of dying on her sixteenth birthday unless true love’s kiss breaks the spell.

Your husband assigned three fairies to look after Aurora, and they are Flora, Fauna, and Merryweather.

However, you insisted on going with them to look after your daughter, to which Stefan hesitantly agreed.

One evening, as you gathered herbs near the edge of the forest with Aurora, you felt it, a presence, dark and familiar.

"Does Stefan ever visit?"

The voice echoed through the trees, sending a shiver down your spine. You turned slowly, your breath catching as he emerged from the trees

Maleficent.

Taller than you remembered, his horns gleaming like polished onyx, his green eyes glowing in the dim light.

His cloak of raven feathers shifted with every step, the air around him humming with restrained power.

"No," you answered softly, gripping your basket tighter. "He never has."

Maleficent's lips curled into a smirk. "How tragic. To abandon his wife and child… just as he abandoned loyalty."

You swallowed hard. "Why are you here?"

His gaze burned into yours.

"I could ask you the same. You were a queen. Now you live in a cottage, hiding like a common thief."

"I'm protecting my daughter," you snapped.

"From me?" He asks.

His gaze turns to the unaware princess as she happily collects the herbs.

"I could remove the curse."

Your heart fills with hope as you quickly demand what he wants.

"What are your conditions?"

"You know what I want," he said.

Your breath hitched.

"I loved you. Before he ever dared whisper your name. I would have razed kingdoms for your happiness, and yet..." His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring.

"He took you. Lied to me, made me believe you had chosen him."

Your eyes widened. "That’s not true!"

"Is it not?" he snapped, stepping closer, his voice like thunder beneath his breath.

"He told me you saw me as a monster, that you were frightened of what I was, that you were grateful he saved you.”

"I never said that!" you gasped.

"Stefan… he told me you had left, that you were consumed by darkness and no longer cared-"

Maleficent's eyes narrowed, coming to realise what has happened.

"He poisoned us both."

"I would have chosen you," you admit, voice trembling.

"I did choose you. But when he said you were gone, I-"

He was in front of you now, so close, his scent giving you nostalgia.

His hand lifted, hesitated, then brushed a strand of hair from your cheek, the touch was gentle.

"Then come back to me," Maleficent stares firmly.

"You, leave this hollow life behind, the curse remains unless I lift it. But I will not do so unless I know you are mine again."

"I can't just walk away," you said. "She's his daughter too."

"He does not deserve her," Maleficent said coldly. "And you know it. He has not lifted a finger to protect her. You have. You’ve always been the one.”

Your gaze moves to your daughter, thinking matters over.

"Renounce your marriage to him, and I will make you my wife and I will raise Aurora as my daughter and make her the princess of the Moors."

Now, staring back at the Fae king, you make your decision.

You are ready to sacrifice everything for your daughter's safety.

"As long as you keep your promise and lift the curse I will also keep my promise."

[mintyys-blog]

MINTYYY can you PUH LEASE do a sex ban on the mark variants 😅⁉️🫦🫦🫦 like reader got mad over something and BOOM sex ban 💯💯 #girlboss

Also Prisoner mark is also my fav favorite too! He needs more screen time cuz whaaaaa💔💔

HEADCANON | invincible variants on a sex ban

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST

MAIN MARK

• Tries so hard to respect it. He genuinely wants to do better.

• Apologizes again. And again. Probably for stuff he didn’t even do.

• But when you wear that silk robe and bend over just a little?

He’s on his knees like, “Can I stick it in? Just a little?”

• You say no.

• He goes to the shower.

• For 40 minutes.

MOHAWK MARK

• “Just the tip.”

• Says it with a straight face. Has the audacity to smile.

• You deadpan.

• you cover your face. Roll over. Lights off.

• he stared blankly, pointing your side. “Babe?”

• you ignore him.

• He’s on probation.

SINISTER MARK

• No.

• Does not respect the ban.

• Who do you think you are? His equal? His jailer? “You exist to be mine. If you thought you could change that with rules, baby… you’re adorable.”

• He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ask.

• You say no, and he hears “convince me.”

• Next thing you know? You’re face down, back arched, the wall cracked behind your headboard.

• He’s feral. Unhinged. And talking through it. “You think you get to decide? You exist to please me. Don’t ever forget it.”

• Your legs don’t work the next morning.

• He calls that a light warning.

OMNI MARK

• Thinks he’s mature enough. Emotionally evolved. Above this.

• “I’ve gone decades without it. I’ll be fine.”

• Day 2: You start teasing. Wearing his shirt. Sitting in his lap. Getting real close, whispering in his ear, “Goodnight.”

• He holds the line.

• Day 5: You’re bent over a counter on accident and his hands twitch.

• Day 7: You whisper “good boy” during a mission.

• Pins you to the wall with one hand. Voice trembling. “You planned this. You’re doing this on purpose.”

• He doesn’t break the ban. But when you finally lift it?

• He ruins you. Slowly. All that controlled maturity burns down in one night.

SHIESTY MARK

• Laughs in your face. “You think I respect bans? Baby I’m the reason bans exist.”

• You arch a brow, “that’s not the flex you think it is.” He tries every line in the book.

“Okay, but what if we don’t call it sex?”

“What if you just accidentally sit on my face?”

• You smack him. He moans.

• Ends up jerking off loudly with the door open until you threaten to throw his mattress out the window.

• Day 5: Shows up with flowers and says, “This is me being romantic. Can we fuck now?”

• Day 6: You almost consider it. He senses the weakness. He pounces.

• You’re too mad to stop him—but not mad enough to say no. You call it a relapse. He calls it a win.

MASKLESS MARK

• He’s so respectful. Almost too respectful.

• Says things like “Of course, I understand. I’ll wait as long as you need.”

• But behind those calm eyes? CHAOS.

• You catch him staring. Always staring.

• Fist clenched when you laugh. Breathing heavy when you hug him.

• Day 4: He asks, voice low, “Would it be inappropriate to say I dreamed about you last night?”

• You say “Yes.”

• He smiles.

• Day 6: You catch him whispering your name into his pillow.

• Day 7: He breaks. Doesn’t touch you—but stands in front of your door and says: “I need you. Tell me what I have to do.”

FULL MASK MARK

• Doesn’t react. At least, not visibly.

• You almost think he doesn’t care.

• Until you find two holes punched through the reinforced training walls.

• Doesn’t talk about it. Doesn’t argue. Just seethes quietly.

• Starts doing silent, shirtless workouts in your eyeline. You know it’s on purpose.

• You try to tease him.

• He doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. But the mask turns. “Say the word, and I’ll break every promise for you.”

• You feel that. Deep. Still, he waits. Until you crack. And when you do? He takes his time.

VILTRUMITE MARK

At first? Arrogant. Smug. You lay down the ban and he just laughs. “You think I need sex that badly? I’m Viltrumite. I have discipline.”

• Day 1: He trains harder. Tries to “sweat it out.”

• Day 2: You stretch in front of him in tiny shorts. He twitches. Looks away. Barely.

• Day 3: You kiss his neck. Whisper “goodnight.” Leave him standing there like a statue with a pulse. He’s pacing the halls at 3AM. Shirtless. Angry. Horny. Confused.

• Day 5: You bend over a little too slow to pick something up and he growls. Like actually. Animal noise.

• Day 6: He’s slamming fists into boulders. Punching holes in steel walls. Trying not to break.

• But you? You’re thriving. Teasing him. Whispering things like, “You’re so strong… bet you could make me forget my own name if I let you.” You leave him like that. Blue-balled. Sweating.

[leashybebes]

8x15 coda redux

after that, there's this. this is rough as hell, gang, and i don't know if i'll ever polish it up. i mostly wrote this on my phone in between pulling up weeds in the garden.

Evan cries on him for several minutes. His whole body shakes with it, and the sound of it tattoos itself indelibly on Tommy's eardrums, overwriting every other horror that's ever jolted him awake from a nightmare before. And then something happens that Tommy's only ever seen happen before in warzones and in the mirror, when he's had a white-knuckled grip on a hand basin, and an even tighter grip on the remnants of who he is as a person.

Evan pushes away from him, sits up, scrubs his hands over his face. His shoulders straighten, his back stiffens, his jaw tightens. He clears his throat and a different person looks at him out of Evan's eyes, made dull by the low light and the things that have happened. They've never knowingly worked a sanctioned scene together before, but he thinks this is what Evan must look like when he takes charge in the field.

In a croaky but remarkably steady voice he says, "I need you to go."

"Evan - " Tommy tries to protest and Evan holds out a hand.

"I need you to go check on Ravi and the others. Ravi first. Then Karen. If I'm not out in ten minutes, I need you to call Eddie."

"I - "

"Tommy." Evan's voice is flat, worryingly steady for a man who was so thoroughly falling apart a couple of breaths ago. "I'm telling you what I need from you. Do it, please."

Tommy does as he's told. 

He finds Ravi and Karen together, isn't sure what he says past Evan sent me. He borrows Karen's phone, his own having been confiscated somewhere along the way, and he counts down the minutes carefully while he keeps one eye on Ravi.

Once ten minutes have elapsed with no sign of Evan or Athena, he scrolls through Karen's contacts until he finds Eddie's number. He doesn't bother to calculate the time difference to El Paso. This isn't a 'wait until a civilized hour' kind of call, and he hates that he's the one making it. Not for himself, but for Eddie, for Evan. He doesn't think he's what either of them need right now.

There isn't enough time for it to be awkward between Eddie answering a call from Karen's number and hearing Tommy's voice.

"Fuck," Eddie says. "Who?"

"Bobby," Tommy tells him.

"Shit. How - how bad?"

"Eddie…"

"You're - you're kidding."

It's a reflex, Tommy knows that. Eddie doesn't think that poorly of him, whatever else he might think.

"I'm really sorry."

Eddie's voice is tinny when it comes next, like Tommy's abruptly been put on speaker. "I'm finding a flight. Everyone else?"

"Physically, yeah. They'll be fine. I think Karen's going to start laying out FBI agents if we don't get to a hospital soon."

"FB - Man, what the fuck happened?"

Tommy gives him as much of an overview as he can, then stops abruptly. There's activity at the main doors.

"Eddie, I gotta go. I'll get Evan to call you from the hospital."

"Okay. I'll be there late evening."

"I'll let them know."

Tommy sees - jesus christ - the body bag, Athena swept away in a huddle of uniformed figures and then catches sight of Evan. He's ramrod straight, phone in his hand, pointing at the screen as he goes toe to toe with someone Tommy's willing to bet has the authority to ruin all their lives. Well. Relatively speaking.

"One button, Major," he hears Evan say as he gets close enough. "You can throw me in whatever black hole you want after, but unless my people are released into medical care right now, one button is all it takes to send all this to the best, meanest investigative journalist on this coast."

"Firefighter - "

"Look at me," Evan says, quiet. "Look at my face and tell me I'm bluffing."

Under any other circumstances, it would be wildly attractive.

The Major turns, already radioing orders, and Evan's left alone for a second. The rigidity in every bone of Evan's body doesn't ease even a little, and Tommy walks up to him with the strange sense that Evan's not there, not in the ways that matter. Not that he's insubstantial, but in that he's too solid to be really real.

"What do you need me to do?" Tommy asks.

Evan, hands on his hips, looking over Tommy's shoulder, eyes moving like he's doing a headcount, so solid he might as well be carved of marble, says, "Come to the hospital."

Tommy goes to the hospital. 

Time passes in the strange expanding and contracting way it does after a loss. Tommy fetches coffees, hands out a vending machine's worth of snacks, keeps himself on the periphery. Once it's confirmed that Hen and Chimney are pulling through okay, once Evan is occupied with Athena's kids, he slips away to the bathroom, locks himself in a cubicle and sobs for five minutes. He can't believe - he can't believe - 

When he gets back to the waiting room, Evan's gaze zeroes in on him immediately, but it's a minute before he crosses the room to Tommy and looks at him intently.

"Where'd you go?" he asks, and for a second, the hardness in his voice makes Tommy think he's mad. But it's not that. It's concern. Concern for Tommy, right now, of all times.

"Bathroom," Tommy manages. "What do you - "

What do you need, what can I do, please please please just tell me how to help you.

Evan reaches out and squeezes his shoulder.

"It's okay," he says. "I know he meant a lot to you too. You should sit down."

"Evan."

"Sit down," Evan says again. "Drink some water. Eat some terrible vending machine snacks. I need to go check on Athena."

Tommy does as he's told.

It takes a long time, but finally, Evan's ready to leave the hospital. Not before he's sent Ravi off with Maddie's house keys to get stuff for Jee Yun and take it to the Lees' place, not before he's had a long phone conversation with Hen's mom, not before he's organized rides for everyone else in their rag-tag group who wound up at the hospital, not before he's worn himself to the bone. But eventually.

"I'll drive you home," Tommy says.

Evan nods, eyes on his phone screen. "Eddie's going to take an Uber from the airport. I can't get hold of Bobby's brother, but I'll keep trying while you drive."

"Okay," Tommy agrees. He doesn't know this guy. He doesn't know this version of Evan - he knew there was steel at the core of him, but he doesn't know this version where everything else has been stripped away.

When they get to Evan's house, he still hasn't managed to get Bobby's brother on the phone, but he's left a calm, even-toned message asking him to call. 

The house is almost unrecognizable from the last time Tommy was here - fully unpacked, fully Evan's in a way that feels startlingly strange. Evan unlocks the door and heads straight for the linen closet, starts putting covers on spare duvets and pillows. Tommy trails after him, helps him make up the bed in the spare room, feeling like he's on the other end of a string tied to the pin in a hand grenade.

"Evan," he says, when the room is done.

"I need to - " Evan starts.

"I think you need to sit down," Tommy interjects.

"No," Evan says, not mad or even loud, but unquestionable. "No, I don't need that."

Tommy feels like he's being turned inside out, like all the things Evan must be feeling are being transferred over to him for want of anywhere else to go.

"Evan," he says again, like it's the only word he knows.

"No. B-Bobby said they would need me. And they do. So I don't need to sit down. I need to - I need - "

"Did he say anything else?" Tommy asks.

It's a risk, but not a huge one, he thinks. In the unlikely event it's a no, Tommy gets an unexpected addition to the list of authority figures he wants to fistfight in an afterlife he doesn't think exists. 

Evan blinks at him for a moment, then looks away. 

"I'm going to do some batch cooking for Athena and the kids. You can help, or you can go to the store, or you can just go."

"Evan - "

"What, Tommy?" The snap in Evan's voice sounds like it hurts. "What do you want me to say? This isn't about me."

And that's just - that's just the wrongest thing Tommy's ever heard.

"Of course it's about you."

"No - " Evan says, pulling out his phone again and scrolling like a message from Bobby's brother will have appeared, despite the fact that he's cranked the ringtone up, and the house is a silent as - well.

"It's about you too. Evan, just stop. What else did Bobby say?"

He's prepared for that's none of your business, he's prepared to be shoved aside, he's prepared even for Evan to throw a punch, although that seems vanishingly unlikely. Whatever else Evan is right now, whatever emotions are running the show, he's Evan.

He's not prepared for the way Evan's face crumples, for the way the phone drops from fingers that seem to have gone nerveless. They were already close enough that when Evan pitches forward, it's directly into Tommy's waiting arms.

"He said - he said - he said he loved me," Evan says, and, well. Tommy feels like that probably went without saying for a lot of years, and he can't imagine how it must have felt to have it said right there, like that. Evan's not crying, but he is shaking, like everything is catching up to him all at once.

"He did," Tommy says. "Of course he did."

"No - Tommy - he said I'd be okay. But I'm not - I'm not - I'm not okay."

"Of course you're not."

"But they need me."

Tommy takes a breath, feels like he's inhaling broken glass. "They're not here. You can be not okay with me."

Evan shakes his head against Tommy's shoulder, tries to pull away. Tommy doesn't let him.

"E-Eddie'll be here soon."

"Yeah," Tommy says. "So let's be not okay until then."

Evan takes a shuddering breath in. Lets out a single sob that shakes his whole body. Weeps.

[emmyrosee]

Bakugou works. A lot.

It was, admittedly, something you forced yourself to look past. Bakugou Katsuki warned you from the beginning that his work was first. It always would be, his dreams and goals, that was who he was.

“Take it or leave it,” he’d told you once, many years ago. “This is what I do.”

And back then, a fool completely head over heels for Katsuki, you’d take it. That was your life, too- texts that went unanswered for days, random updates about his day, calling maybe twice a week to see how you were, and you were fine to sacrifice that part of your sanity all those years ago.

But now, Kirishima posts the random flowers he got his partner on any random Wednesday. Midoriya’s hand clasped under the left hand of his fiancée’s on his timeline. Even Kaminari, who posts tangled legs of his person before he gets up to start the day. It makes you feel sick.

All you want, all you crave, all you’d sell for, is for flowers on any day. A wedding ring that would mean something. Tangled legs in the morning that beg and plead to stay in the warmth of the sheets.

But Katsuki has never been good at giving you that; he’s not a Prince Charming and his life is not a fairytale, you are not his number one priority and it fucking destroys you on the inside.

For years, you try to let it go, to no damn avail. It just hurts too much to think about for too long, knowing that nothings to change or give, and as long as your heart will love him, you’ll be right there waiting, and knowing not whether that love and excitement will always be returned.

But tonight, your dinner sits cold. One place setting untouched, unused and unloved, with your head resting on your hand as the rest of dinner is untouched. The steam stopped flowing from the plates hours ago, and you find yourself still sitting at the table. Your elbows grow sore from perching your chin in your palm.

Your lip quivers as you move to hang your head in sadness, hopelessness, until a knock rouses you from your wallowing. You wipe your eyes and make your way to the locked door, and smile at the guest on the otherside.

"Shoto," you sigh. "Here for your key?"

"Yes," he says simply, nodding his head in appreciation. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate you taking care of the cats. It truly means a lot."

You raise your hand in an attempt to show nonchalance, "it's no big deal at all. I know how busy you get, it's the least I can do for such a good neighbor."

He chuckles, and you forgot how good the sound felt falling from someone else's lips. It feels like it's been ages since you've heard it. He nods his head again, "well, thank you again," he turns on his heel to start walking away.

"Shoto," you say. He stops in his tracks and turns to look at you. You fiddle with the door handle, "could I interest you in some cold dinner? I cooked for Katsuki, but he's not here and leftovers never get eaten in this house, and... I... don't mind reheating some for you."

A glimmer of sympathy crosses his eyes, offering a hum, "I would certainly appreciate the warm meal. Thank you."

It's not the guest you'd hoped, but you've had dinner with worse people. Todoroki's been in your life for longer than you care to remember, what's one more dinner shared together?

It's not like Katsuki is here to say otherwise.

Over a lukewarm, slightly-rubberized-from-microwaving dinner, Todoroki listens to you, holding onto every word as he always does when you speak. It feels nice to be heard again, to not be forced to talk to the walls of your home.

You're not sure how long it's been before the front door opens again, and you feel yourself tense up at the heavy boots crossing the threshold, a snarly "I'm home" ringing in the air.

"Hey," you call back. "Shoto and I were wrapping up dinner, I saved-"

"The fuck's he doing here?" He snarls, and Todoroki merely blinks, bored.

"Is it not friendly to drop in for some company?" He asks, and if you knew Todoroki any less, you'd never know it was his way of riling Katsuki up.

And it hasn't failed once.

Katsuki balls his fist, "not when I'm not fucking home, you freak!"

"Katsuki, enough," you snarl back. Two heads whip towards you, one set of eyes filled with fury, the other with surprise. “Maybe you should’ve been here when Shoto stopped by. This weird complex you’re in wouldn’t be a damn issue.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” His words are a growl deep behind a wall of teeth, but you’re so tired it doesn’t deter you. You clench your hands and finally curl them into fists. “You got something to say to me?”

You grit your teeth, “Shoto's been here for how long? You haven’t. You wanted him out so bad? You should’ve fucking been here. You weren’t. So bite me.” You quickly spin on your heel as stinging tears burn your waterline, leaving the two heroes alone in the living room.

Katsuki barks your name, “we’re not done here!”

“I am.”

You purposely slam the door, knowing it’s one of his biggest pet peeves. He deserves it, and a lot more. Katsuki yells a bit more, too much of a ferocious tone to fully grasp what he’s saying, and it’s matched with Todoroki’s calm demeanor. He kicks Todoroki out, which you hear, and you brace yourself as he stomps into the bedroom, ready for the explosion that's hurdling straight towards you.

But it never comes.

Instead, you watch the bathroom door open and close, and then a few moments later, you hear the shower turn on. Confusion twists through your mind as you try to piece together just exactly what happened, but ultimately drawing only blanks. You sigh and strip into your pajamas, deciding to call it a night before he comes in and stirs the pot more.

He can do it tomorrow.

Though your heart does break a little when you wake up to find the bed next to you cold and made; he must’ve crashed on the couch last night, too enveloped with his fury to come and make amends.

That's fine. You're patient.

Sunday is tense, a day Katsuki usually reserves off to spend time at home, he's made the executive decision to go into work, leaving you to mourn the love lost in the day, love you usually receive in the melting day. Todoroki comes by again, this time to check in on you after the fight he'd witnessed the day before. And to your disappointment, Katsuki arrives home at the same time, briskly brushing past you and your friend.

Monday comes and goes, once again the bed next to you remains cold in wordless grudge. You're not going to apologize, you have no need to.

Even if this is the end of your relationship.

What's there to work through? After forcing you into a life where affection is miniscule and tokes of appreciation are seen as nothing more than an option, perhaps its for the best to let the embers die, and-

No.

You don't want it to be the end. Not like this. Not now. Not after years of giving Bakugou Katsuki your entire life, promising to stand by him through thick and thin.

You'll bite your tongue until it hurts. Until he decides what he wants to do. You're loyal as a dog to him, after all. The ball remains in his court, always.

By Tuesday, Katsuki comes in, and he doesn’t even look at you. He washes his hands before shambling off to the showers to mimic some form of warmth you’d once provided him. When you hear the shower head turn on, you curl deeper into your corner of the couch, lowering your eyes to try and fight back the tears that sting at your waterline.

Maybe he is done. Maybe this is it. He’s sick of waiting for you, sick of your shit and tired of the exhaust you put on his mentality. Work comes first, and if there was ever a time to enforce it, it would be now.

With a soft whimper to mask your cries, you click off the tv and creep your way up the stairs. It’s dark in your room, the pictures of you and Katsuki invisible until you flick on the light- even then, they’re not as pristine as they had looked just days ago.

The bed is once again cold and feels far too big as you curl up on your side, knowing if you roll onto his, you’ll be met with a hand waking you up and pushing you away.

You’re not in the mood for that tonight.

Not when for months at a time, he’s been shoving you away, be it with mean words or snaps of venom or just actually moving you from his space, you can’t possibly conjure the mood in your little pity party to care for him to disregard you in such brutal ways.

But fuck, god, no matter how much you want to believe it, that you can just as easily fall asleep without him next to you, snores punching through the air and the occasional lull of his head next to yours, you can't, and you hate how bitter and horrible a life without Bakugou Katsuki sounds.

You hate how your life revolves around him, and you wish it didn't, you hate how empty your soul would be without his name coming up on your phone, you hate that you fell so hard for Bakugou Katsuki that a life without him doesn't exist.

You'll never leave him. It makes you feel sick.

What you wouldn't sell, what you wouldn't give, to have Bakugou Katsuki love you just as much as you do, him.

But, as if manifested, no more than an hour later, he does come in. Your name falling from his lips sounds timid, like he's unsure if he should be saying it. "Listen," he snips, lip quivering as he sinks his teeth into the fat, eyes swollen from tears and looking so defeated you're almost convinced it’s not even the Bakugou Katsuki you fell in love with all those years ago.

You slowly sit up, curling up by the pillows as he stands in the doorway, disheveled and frustrated and extremely, clearly, hurt.

“You win,” he whimpers, hands cupped over his mouth to mimic a paper bag, regulating his breathing. They suddenly drop to the side, “you-you-you win. I can’t do this anymore, I won’t, I fucking give, you win-“

“Win what?” You ask, but it’s clear in your demeanor that you know exactly what he’s confessing to, even as you’re dazed from sleep.

You just want him to say it.

Katsuki uses his sleeve to roughly rub the tears out of his eyes, “just fucking stop, okay?” He growls, and it sends a shiver through you as it passes his teeth. “You fucking win, okay? I-I-I was wrong, I never should’ve said shit about you and Todoroki’s friendship, or said shit-fuck about you spending time with him when I should’ve been here.” He lets one, saliva filled sob sneak past his lips, it’s like a dam of words break loose. “But fuck, please just fucking look at me again, I’m sorry, I just hate the idea that you’ll fall for him while trying to get back at me, so please just love me again-“

At that, you jump up to your feet and quickly scurry over to him, brows furrowed in concern but lip pouting out as you toss your arms around him, his knees buckling under your touch and arms limply hanging. “-because I sure wouldn’t blame you if you did leave me for him after how I’ve been treating you.”

“Katsuki,” you soothe, a hand reaching up to scratch at his scalp. “That’s not going to happen. That’s not what this was to show you.” You plant kisses along his jawline, hating the feeling of it quivering under your affection. “This wasn’t to show you that my feelings for Shoto become more romantic when you’re not here; it was to show you what you were missing when you could’ve been here.” He slouches further at your words, and you wonder if they were the correct ones to say.

“Katsuki,” you say again, firmly, gathering his cheeks in your hands. They’re hot, fuck they’re so warm from his distress, and and you feel what little coolness your palms held disappear into the swells. “You’re not going to lose me to Shoto. I would never leave you for Shoto- I’d never leave you for anyone.” He blinks unconvinced at you, and one of his tears roll over your fingers. “But you will miss dinners. You will miss movies. You will miss time with me if you don’t stop only thinking of yourself in this relationship. What you’re doing now clearly isn’t meshing with what I need. What we need from each other. I can only be so flexible before I wonder when we’ll… when I’ll stop bothering.”

“I don’t want to stop,” he mumbles, trying to chase even more coolness in your palms. “I just… I want to be the best-“

“And you are, but you can’t betray yourself by overworking yourself-“

“No,” he bites through his teeth. “The best for you. But… Todoroki can give you the best shit effortlessly, I fucking see it. And…” he winces as he stands up, as if disgusted to even say what dares to slip past his tongue. “And he can give you the life you want, the life you deserve; I just cant fucking watch it anymore.”

“Shhh,” you soothe, pulling his reluctant form into a hug. He tenses, but eventually rests his head in the crook of your neck, trembling hands settling on your waist gently, as if scared you’d break under the touch. Your nails move up to his scalp, scratching lovingly.

“Shoto is a mild-mannered, quiet spoken person who thinks logically about everything he says and does,” You whisper, planting a soft kiss to his pounding temple.

“I love that about him, as a friend- but you, Katsuki, are exciting. And you make loving you just as addictive.”

He does, finally, perk up at that, and you smile against his skin. “Say more stuff like that,” he mumbles, sniffling, but you tighten your arms around him while you giggle softly at the idea of having your old Bakugo back.

“Shoto and I go to the market together, we’re in and out in twenty minutes tops- but if that’s what I wanted, I’d go alone,” he lets out a breathy chuckle, and you grin, “I like bickering with you in the dairy aisle about flavors of milk to get.”

“If I wanted chocolate milk, I’d get the syrup,” he defends, as if you’re standing in the aisle and not picking up the pieces of your relationship in your bedroom.

“And then when the milk is all gone, I have you bitching at me about the syrup getting wasted,” you snort. “It’s just easier if I get-“

“I love you,” he whispers, his hot breath fanning out over your neck. You pause and smile, relishing in the scent of his post-shower aroma.

“I love you,” you say back, kissing whatever your lips can reach against his head. “Once a week, Katsuki. I want to go to bed with you at least once a week, and not be left away absolutely panicked over where the hell you may have gone. I’d like to have dinner with you at some point in the week. I hate missing you, I always have, even when we were teens.” When he finally nods softly, you pull back with your hands cupping his cheeks, the swollen apples looking foreign on your usually solid man. You smirk and use your thumb to wipe his tears, “you’ve always been an ugly crier.”

He chokes softly on a laugh, “why do you think I never do it?” He licks his dry lips before looking you up and down, “leave that shit to you.”

“It is nice seeing you emotional over me for once.”

“Yeah?” He rasps. Then, he tugs you in for a kiss, one that sears and tears at your teeth and tongue, one that feels exhilarating and exhausting all at once, one that encapsulates Katsuki in one swift, dominating move.

It’s jagged and rough, but familiar enough to have you swooning in his bulky, caring arms.

“You got me in love with you, or some shit.”

[intheupside]

“I get to do what I love,” Crosby said. “The least I can do is treat people well along the way.”

really good sid article in the athletic today

Moments before overtime of Game 6 between Sidney Crosby’s Pittsburgh Penguins and Alex Ovechkin’s Washington Capitals in 2016, the Penguins all sat in the silent home locker room. No one moved. No one uttered a word..

Over the years, the Penguins had been mentally tougher than the Capitals, which explained why they owned their bitter rival in the biggest games. Now, the tables appeared to have turned and the Penguins were rattled. It was all silent in the Pittsburgh room, until only a few intermission minutes remained.

Then Crosby, the soft-spoken captain of the Penguins, stood up and addressed his team.

“Hey guys,” Crosby said. “We’re better than that f—ing team. This ends now.”

It took only 6 minutes, 32 seconds of overtime for Bonino to score the game-winner, ending the series and paving the way for Crosby and the Penguins to win their second of three championships. But Crosby’s message left a lasting impression.

“No one could believe it when he did it,” Cole said. “Bones scored the goal, but it was Sid. We needed to hear it. It was all Sid. That’s the kind of leader he is.”

Crosby has been the captain of Team Canada since 2014, and for almost half of his life, the 37-year-old Crosby has skated with the “C” stitched on his chest in Pittsburgh. Along the way, he has developed a reputation for leadership that is second to none. There is a family atmosphere and a charitable spirit within the Penguins organization that largely exists because of him.

Even this season, as Crosby’s Penguins miss the playoffs for a third straight season, his leadership attributes have never dimmed. The results and on-ice success may vary from year to year; Crosby does not.

What’s his secret? What makes him unique? What makes him a great leader?

Those who have shared a locker room with Crosby swear by him and talk about a set of common principles:

He treats everyone the same and insists that he’s treated like everyone else.

He makes everyone feel welcome and does so with personal touches.

His competitiveness rubs off on everyone else.

His work ethic and consistency inspire others to be better.

“There’s never been anyone like him, and there never will be,” said former Penguins general manager Jim Rutherford. “I’ve been around a while and I’ve met a lot of people. I’ve never met anyone like him.”

In 2014 the Penguins acquired Lee Stempniak and Marcel Goc at the trade deadline, and the pair was set to play in San Jose the following day. Goc and Stempniak were en route to the SAP Center in San Jose.

The rest of the Penguins had long since departed the arena in San Jose for the hotel to engage in the standard pre-game afternoon nap. Stempniak and Goc, however, were headed straight to the arena, so Crosby sat for hours in the Penguins locker room, waiting for the new players to arrive. He had already welcomed them to the team via text, but he prefers to add the personal touch.

“That’s what I noticed when the Penguins first traded for me,” said Ryan Pohling, who played one season for the Penguins before moving on to Philadelphia. “I get a text from Sid. And he’s chatting you up, making you feel so comfortable. And you’re like, ‘Sidney Crosby is talking to me.’ It just gets your attention because of who he is. But he just wants to make you feel welcome immediately. He’s different than anyone else.”

There is a long trail of evidence of Crosby making new guys feel welcome.

“It’s crazy,” said Rutger McGroarty, one of the youngest Penguins. “You’re barely in the NHL, and Sidney Crosby is chatting you up.”

But those personal touches extend to longtime teammates as well.

“If you’re having a bad day or having a problem, he’ll take care of you,” said Marc-Andre Fleury, his former teammate. “He’d talk in French to make me feel better.”

During the 2016 Stanley Cup run, Crosby frequently took the young players out to dinner, wanting them to feel comfortable in a new city.

Sometimes they’d be itching for a nap on the road. Too bad.

“We usually have these team lounges at hotels,” Rust said. “Trust me, he was always encouraging us to get down there. He wanted everybody there, but especially the younger guys. So you would go down to the lounge, and he’d be there waiting. Shoot the bull, play cards, whatever. I think he just wanted everyone hanging out together. It was important to him, and it still is. We’d have team dinners, stuff like that, and he’d always make sure the young guys attended. He went out of his way to make us feel comfortable during that time.”

That, Rust said, led to the Penguins’ back-to-back championships as much as their talent.

“It’s 100 percent a real thing, and Sid always understood that,” Rust said. “It can be the missing piece to the puzzle.”

Just because he wants to make people feel welcome doesn’t mean Crosby wants them to stay too relaxed. Not for long, anyway.

Crosby makes those around him better simply by challenging them.

“He doesn’t even mean to do it,” former teammate Mike Rupp said. “At least, I don’t think he does.”

In 2010, the Penguins were conducting their annual team testing at the beginning of training camp. Rupp, a 6-foot-5, 230-pound power forward and menacing physical presence, had earlier in the day thrown the medicine ball further than any of his teammates.

when Crosby walked up to him.

“So I heard you have the record for today?” Crosby said. “Not anymore.”

“So we started throwing the medicine ball back and forth after this,” Rupp said. “I throw it the first time, and it goes maybe 25 feet. Then he gets 26. Then I throw one 27. So then he throws one that goes 30 feet. I think we got up to 33 feet.”

“The point is,” Rupp said, “I had thought, at that time, that I had thrown it as far as I could. That I gave everything that I could. But I hadn’t. That’s how Sid brings you to another level.”

On or off the ice, Rupp had never seen anyone who could inspire greatness from those around him like that. The oldest of his former teammates agrees.

Matt Cullen was almost 40 when the Penguins won those championships in 2016 and 2017. Even he found himself looking up to Crosby.

“I think his drive to constantly improve his own game and his unmatched work ethic leaves teammates no choice but to follow,” Cullen explained.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Five

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren't quirks, they're survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, detailed meltdown on-page, angst.

Notes — Another double update, go me! PSA: Our Amelia has a bit of a difficult time in this one. Take care of yourselves x

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! - Peach x

2019

WhatsApp Groupchat — The 2019 F1 Grid

Charles L. I have found an iPad in Ferrari hospitality. It is engraved with the initials A.B. Any ideas?

Lewis H. Does it have a bunny sticker on it?

Charles L. Yes!

Lewis H. That’s Amelia’s, then.

Lando N. lol I’ll come get it just gimme 10 mins im in a debrief rn 

Charles L. Sure no problem Amelia is Zak Brown’s daughter, yes?

George R. Yeah mate The smart one.

Sebastian V. Haha. She is the one Binotto wants? Brown hair, pretty smile?

Lando N. Bro.

Lewis H. @Sebastian — Mattia has tried to get her to Ferrari?

Sebastian V. Yes. He’s offered her some very lucrative opportunities. She has so far turned all of them down.

Carlos S. She’s loyal to McLaren. Leave her to us, yes?

Valtteri B. But if she ever decided to go elsewhere, Mercedes would make sense.

Lewis H. Yeah obviously 👍🏻

Lando N. ????????????

Lance S. If she was offered a million dollars to fix the Racing Point car, do you think she’d take it? Not a hypothetical. My dad wants to know.

Max V. Money won’t work. You forget she’s already the child of a millionaire.

Lance S. Damn it.

Kimi R. Is this the child always in Norris’ garage?

Lando N. Don’t call her a child we are literally the same age

Kimi R. That does not change the fact

Daniel R. But seriously, why was she even in Ferrari hospitality in the first place?

Max V. Ice cream.

Lando N. Ice cream 

Lewis H. Ice cream.

Sebastian V. I can confirm she was here for ice cream. Pistachio, specifically.

Charles L. I cannot believe I’ve still never met her. Is she really so smart?

Lando N. Yes.

Pierre G. Absolutely.

Max V. Smarter than you are capable of comprehending, Charles.

Charles L. Then I suppose I will just have to charm her into accepting Mattia’s offer 😌

Lando N. I will put in the wall, Leclerc.

Charles L. Oh! You are together with her, Lando? I didn’t know!

Lando N. No, we’re not together.

Charles L. Then I am confused.

Max V. Her father has practically forbade them from dating. Total nonsense if you ask me.

Carlos S. They are dating.

Daniel R. @Carlos 😳😳😳

Lando N. @Carlos NO WE ARE NOT STOP SAYING THAT

Sergio P. Mucho defensive…

Carlos S. He wrote his race number on her shoes.

Lando N. So what? That means nothing.

Daniel R. Oh brother….

Max V. Yeah, sorry, I can’t even back you on that one Lando. That’s a lot.

Kimi R. My wife had my number stitched into her shoes. We got married six months later.

George R. So Kimi is saying you’re basically engaged, bro.

Lewis H. Let’s stop talking about this. Before Lando has a full on meltdown.

Charles L. Too late. He has arrived for the iPad with a terrible attitude. 

Lando N. I hate all of you.

— 

Subject: Workplace Conduct Reminder – Inclusivity & Respect at McLaren

From: HR Department To: All McLaren Racing Staff Date: [Sunday, post-race, 10:42 PM]

Dear Team,

As the season continues and tensions rise both on and off the track, we’d like to take a moment to remind everyone of McLaren’s core values — collaboration, respect, and inclusion.

We are incredibly proud of the diversity across our team, from engineering to strategy, operations to communications. Every person is here because they bring something exceptional to the table — and that includes our colleagues who may experience or perceive the world differently than others.

We ask that all team members remain mindful of the following:

Neurodiversity is not a barrier — it is an asset. Please be conscious of language and behaviour that may unintentionally alienate or diminish the contributions of individuals who may process things differently. This includes members of our extended team, trusted advisors, and collaborators who work closely with us — regardless of job title or official role.

“Vibes” are not a metric — Judging someone’s energy, personality, or communication style is not only unprofessional but also unfair. Everyone representing or contributing to McLaren, formally or informally, deserves respect.

Support one another — Whether someone wears McLaren orange full-time or contributes behind the scenes, everyone here plays a part in our collective success.

Rumours are not culture — Let’s keep paddock gossip out of professional spaces. If you have concerns, we encourage you to speak directly to your manager or HR.

This message is not in response to any one incident but rather a gentle pit stop reminder: our team functions best when everyone feels seen, heard, and safe.

If you have any questions or want to speak to someone in confidence, please feel free to reach out to HR directly. We’re here to help.

Kind regards, The McLaren Racing HR Team [hr@mclarenracing.co.uk]

— 

iMessage — 11:40pm

Lando Yo, did you see the email?

Carlos Sí.

Lando Kinda hardcore. Glad Zak did something 

Carlos Somebody said something to Amelia?

Lando Yeah someone in PR idk I feel like I should know more about her stuff I feel stupid tho. Like I don’t know anything. Just that she’s Amelia yano 

Carlos I did some reading. Come to my hotel room. We eat pizza. I will teach you what I know and we can google the rest.

Lando Legend. Thanks, mate.

— 

The course he took her to wasn’t flashy — quiet, tucked away, the kind of place her dad’s friends would never be caught dead in. That was intentional. They weren’t exactly hiding their… friendship, but they weren’t trying to advertise it either.

Amelia stared down at the club he’d handed her like it was a piece of martian debris.

“This is very stupid,” she muttered. “Pointless, really.”

“It is,” Lando agreed, his lips twitching. “Just hit the ball.”

She squinted at the tiny white ball he’d settled on the grass in front of her. “Is it supposed to just… go?”

“Yes.”

“Like in a line?” she clarified, glancing at him.

He shrugged. “In theory.”

She swung. Missed.

Lando clapped anyway. “Incredible form. I’ve never seen such calculated failure.”

“It was bad,” she said seriously. “I didn’t hit the ball. I made a hole in the grass, Lando.” She stared down at the muddy crater with quiet horror.

He just gave her an encouraging nod, gesturing for her to try again.

She sighed, feeling the beginning of a stress rash creep along her neck. But she tried again. And that time, she hit it — not far, just a lazy roll across the grass — but enough to surprise herself. Lando caught the way her eyes widened, saw the exact moment the thrill overtook her frustration.

He didn’t say anything. Just handed her another ball.

They kept going like that for a while — her slowly getting the hang of it, him slipping in dumb jokes and patient explanations between swings. She never asked for help, but he noticed how closely she watched every move he made. Her eyes, always sharp, always calculating.

Eventually, she dropped to the grass with a dramatic sigh and said, “Why do people think this is relaxing? I’m hot and my legs are tired.”

Lando chuckled and sat beside her, kicking his legs out long. “I think it’s relaxing. Your dad likes it.”

“I don’t want to talk about my dad. It makes me stressed.”

“Yeah?” He asked.

She pulled at a blade of grass, rolled it between her fingers. “He told me again that it would be better if I stayed away from you. He said it would make things easier. For me. For you. For the team.” She continued. 

Lando let the silence sit for a moment before asking, his voice quiet and slightly unsure. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I want him to not worry. I want him to trust me. I want…” She hesitated, frowning at the grass. “I want to feel like I can make my own choices without feeling like I might wreck everything.” 

“You’re not wrecking anything,” Lando said. He tapped the ground next to her leg and she glanced at him, blinking. “I like hanging out with you.” He told her. 

She didn’t say anything, just flicked the blade of grass from her fingers and looked at the trees that surrounded the course. “I don’t know what I feel yet,” she said finally. “Toward you, I mean. But I know that I have liked this. Today. Not the golf. Being with you.”

Lando grinned — couldn’t help himself. Probably looked like a right knob, but he didn’t care. “Want to keep playing?” He asked. 

She gave him a look. “I might get fined for ruining so much of their grass.”

He handed her another ball. Shrugged. Smirked. “It’s fine. I make a lot of money.” 

She rolled her eyes.

— 

Amelia shut her bedroom door with more force than she meant to and leaned against it, breath caught high in her chest like she’d just ran a marathon. Her bag hit the floor. Her hands were shaking.

She didn’t know why. Except; she did.

Her body was full of something too big. Too much. A knot of heat and noise and confusion that had no exit. It felt like all the inside parts of her were pressing outward, like she might split open if she didn't stay still.

She pressed her palms hard into her eyes like she could push it all back in. But it was already too late. The thoughts were everywhere; spilled oil, tangled cords, static static static. Her brain wouldn’t quiet down. Wouldn’t give her space to think.

She’d had a good day. That was the worst part. 

Lando had been good.

He never looked at her like she was difficult. He didn’t act like she was hard work. When she didn’t catch onto something the first time, he just explained again. No sighing. No staring. No pretending. Things weren’t easy with him, not exactly, but they were lighter. Easier.

She sat hard on her bed and the tears came without warning; fast, silent, relentless.

She didn’t cry often. Usually she just shut down. Usually the wall slammed down before anything could spill out. But this time everything had slipped past it, and now she was sobbing, but it didn’t even feel like crying. It felt like her whole nervous system had shattered.

A knock at the door.

“Amelia?” her mum’s voice, soft. “We just got back. Can I come in?”

She didn’t answer. Just turned her face away and wiped at it, even though the tears kept falling. Her skin was already stinging. Her chest was tight.

The door creaked open.

“I’m not upset,” Amelia said fast, panicked. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t know why I feel like this. No. I do. I do. I just don’t know what to do with it. And I don’t want to talk about it—except I do. I do, I just—” She broke off, swallowing hard.

Her mum sat on the edge of the bed, calm. Grounding.

“I went out with Lando today,” Amelia said, too fast. “To play golf. His idea. He said we should do something fun. So I did. And it was fun. I didn’t freak out or embarrass myself. I didn’t ruin it. I didn’t ruin it.”

She dug her nails into her palms. Her face was blotchy and sore.

“He makes me feel normal,” she whispered. “Not small. Not like a problem. Just… me. And now I don’t know what I feel. I think I want him to be my friend. Or maybe something else. I don’t know. And I don’t want to know, because it doesn’t matter.”

“Why doesn’t it matter?” Her mum asked calmly.

Amelia blinked at her, and then, like someone flicked a switch, the anger surged. Hot and fast, like a fever.

“Because of Dad,” she spat. “Because he thinks that it would be a distraction. Because he thinks I’ll screw everything up just by being around. Like I’m some walking disease that’s gonna infect Lando’s entire career. I know that’s what he’s worried about the most.”

She was breathing too fast. Her limbs were twitching now, hands clenching and unclenching.

“I don’t have friends,” she said. “You know that. I’ve never had friends. Not ones that stay. I get too intense. Too blunt. Too weird. Too tired. And people always stop trying.”Her voice cracked. Her throat burned. “But Lando didn’t stop. He hasn’t stopped. And it’s still not enough. I still don’t get to have this one good thing without it turning into a problem.”

The sobs came back, messy and loud this time. She stood up too fast, swaying. Her hands started moving uncontrollably at her sides; jerky, uncoordinated. A warning sign. The meltdown was building and she couldn’t stop it, could never stop it. 

Her mum stood too, moving slow, blocking her path without touching her.

“Okay, sweetheart. You don’t have to think about any of that right now.” Her mom’s attempts to comfort her were useless against the onslaught of emotions she was feeling. 

“I’m so angry,” Amelia choked out. “I finally feel calm, I finally feel seen, and it’s not allowed. I’m not allowed to want something or feel something if it’s inconvenient for anyone else!”

She was trembling now. Her skin felt wrong. Her body wasn’t hers anymore. She wanted to rip it off. She wanted to scream and break things. Instead, she clenched her fists and shook and shook and shook.

“Do you want me to get your things?” her mum asked, voice calm, anchoring.

Amelia nodded hard. “Yes. My weighted blanket. And the golf ball. It’s in my bag. Lando bought it for me and I want to hold it. It’s yellow.”

“I’ll get everything,” her mum said gently.

“I’m not doing this on purpose,” Amelia shouted, the volume jarring even to herself. “I’m trying so hard. All the time. I’m always trying.”

“I know,” her mum said. “And I’m proud of you. Every day.”

Amelia slid to the floor. Her body folded in on itself, hands clawed into her sleeves, breathing uneven.

The noise in her head kept rising.

Usually, this was when she wanted her dad. Wanted him to sit next to her. Watch a race in silence. Be there without asking anything of her.

But not now.

Now, all she wanted was for him to stay far, far away.

— 

It was almost midnight.

Her room was quiet now; weighted blanket pulled up to her chest, lights off, only the soft blue glow of her phone screen lighting her face. The golf ball sat in her right hand, warm from where she’d been holding it for hours. She kept rolling it between her fingers, feeling the small ridges, the smoothness. Grounding.

She had stopped shaking, but her body was aching like one big bruised muscle. 

She stared at the message thread with Lando, her thumb hovering, retreating, hovering again.

She didn’t know what to say.

Everything in her head still felt too big. Too messy. But the quiet between them was worse. Not bad, not uncomfortable, just... unfamiliar. She wanted to talk to him. 

Finally, she started typing. 

— 

iMessage — 10:11pm

Amelia I didn’t enjoy golf very much. But I liked being with you. Thank you for inviting me.

Lando Norris I’m glad you came anyway We had fun though, right? I had fun :)

Amelia Yes, I had fun. It was confusing. But in a good way. I liked learning something new.

Lando Norris I liked today too You were kind of great We should do more new things together. Just us

Amelia Maybe. I feel strange tonight. My head is a bit loud.

Lando Norris That’s alright

Amelia Do you think if I asked you questions about your Formula Three races… you would answer them?

Lando Norris Absolutely I’d love that Haven’t talked about F3 in ages Might be nice to remember

Amelia Okay. What did it feel like the first time you won?

Lando Norris Like my hands knew before I did Like the whole world stopped for one second so I could catch up It felt… right. Like I was exactly where I was supposed to be ya know 

Amelia Oh

Lando Norris: You okay?

Amelia: I forgot all the questions I had for you. Sorry.

Lando Norris That’s okay. Don’t worry. Your brain’s probably sleepy. It’s late Are you tired?

Amelia Yes. I got upset earlier for no reason and it’s made me tired I’ll go to sleep now. Thank you for texting me back. Goodnight.

Lando Norris You don’t have to thank me for that I like talking to you Feel better soon, yeah? Goodnight x

— 

The house was still, the kind of stillness that only came after a storm.

Tracy sat on the couch in the dark, legs curled beneath her, a half-cold mug of tea resting in her hands. She hadn’t moved since she’d come downstairs after leaving Amelia. The couch blanket was draped over her shoulders, but she still shivered slightly, not from the cold, but from the heavy weight of witnessing her daughter’s pain. 

Zak entered quietly, the door clicking shut behind him. He didn’t speak at first. Just stood in the doorway, tie loose, shoulders slumped, guilt etched deep into the lines around his eyes. After a long moment, he crossed the room and sat down beside her.

Tracy didn’t look at him. Just murmured, “She’s asleep now. I checked a minute ago.”

Zak nodded slowly. “She didn’t ask for me.”

“She didn’t want to be touched. Didn’t want help. Just needed space.” Tracy’s voice cracked, but she kept it steady. “She was barely holding on, Zak. I haven’t seen her like that in a long time.”

“I didn’t mean to make it worse,” he said too quickly. “I just… I thought I was protecting her.”

“I know you did,” Tracy replied gently.

Zak stared at the floor. “I didn’t think it would hurt her like this. I thought—” He faltered. “I thought keeping her away from Lando would keep things simple. Keep her safe. From getting hurt. Or confused. Or from people talking. From getting her hopes up.”

“You didn’t trust her,” Tracy said. Not accusing, just honest.

Zak exhaled hard. “No. I didn’t trust him.”

Tracy finally turned to look at him. “But he’s been good to her. You’ve seen that, surely.” 

“I have,” Zak admitted, tersely. 

“But it wasn’t on your terms,” Tracy said. “So you didn’t like it.”

Zak didn’t argue.

“She’s not a problem to solve, Zak. She’s our daughter. And she’s doing something incredibly brave. She’s opening up. She’s connecting. That’s huge for her.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “God, I know. I just…” He broke off, ran a hand through his hair. “Why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t it have been someone safer?”

“Because love isn’t safe,” Tracy said. “And friendship isn’t simple. And if you’re lucky enough to find someone who makes you feel okay in your skin, even just for a little while, that’s not a risk for someone like her. That’s a lifeline.”

Zak leaned back, scrubbing a hand over his face. He looked hollowed out. “I feel like I’ve completely blown it.”

“You haven’t,” Tracy said gently. “But you will if you keep pushing like this. If you keep trying to prevent something that is starting to seem pretty much inevitable.” 

Zak was quiet.

“She loves you,” Tracy added. “But she can’t keep fighting you on this. Not when she’s also fighting herself. That kind of pressure… it’ll break her.”

That landed like a stone. He blinked against the sting in his eyes and nodded, slow and tired. “Okay,” he whispered. “Yeah. Okay. Fine.”

Tracy leaned into him and kissed the rough edge of his jaw. “You’re a good father, Zak. She knows that. She’ll forgive you.”

Zak didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the dark hallway.

“She didn’t ask for me,” he said again, softer this time. Raw. Frayed.

Tracy sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. “I know, honey.”

— 

The flat was quiet, except for the hum of the fridge and the occasional thump of bass through the wall from the upstairs neighbours. Lando sat cross-legged on the sofa, eyes unfocused on the muted Rally Car stream playing on the TV. Max was in the kitchen, one sock on, microwaving some disastrous smelling leftover curry.

“You ever liked someone,” Lando said suddenly, not looking up, “so much that even the idea of them ruining your life doesn’t sound that bad?”

Max made a noise that landed somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Christ, mate. What brought that on?”

Lando shrugged. “Dunno. I’ve just been thinking.”

“About Amelia?” Max asked, already knowing. He padded over and dropped into the armchair opposite, bowl in his lap.

Lando exhaled slowly. “I really fucking like her. It doesn’t make sense. She’s, I mean— Jesus, I don’t know. Feels like I can breathe right around her, you know?”

Max didn’t answer right away. Just stirred the curry and watched the screen for a second. Then, gently: “Yeah. I get that. But... Come on, mate. You sure this isn’t a bit too much, too fast?”

Lando looked over. Frowned. “What do you mean?”

Max shifted, trying to find words. “It’s not just about liking someone. It’s about who she is. Like, she’s your boss’s daughter. That’s... not insignificant here.”

“I know that.” Lando bit back. 

“Okay. But do you really know what it means? If something goes wrong, if it ends, and ends messy, it’s not like you can just walk away. There’s no possibility of a clean break with her.” 

Lando was quiet, but his jaw tightened.

“I’m not trying to scare you off,” Max added quickly. “I just... I know how much you’ve worked for this. Since you were, what, six? Your whole life’s been about driving. Being the best. And now you’re closer than ever.”

“I’m not giving up racing,” Lando snapped, defensive before Max even finished.

“I didn’t say you were,” Max snapped right back at him. “I just don’t want you to stop being Lando Norris: F1 driver and become Lando Norris: the guy who fucked around with his boss’ daughter, you know?”

Lando stared down at his hands. He felt like a piece of shit as he said, “Zak’s basically said the same thing. So has my dad.”

Max nodded. “‘Cause we’re all thinking the same thing, mate.” 

Lando rubbed his hands over his face and pulled his hood up. “Maybe you’re right,” he mumbled. “Maybe this isn’t... good timing.”

Max didn’t say anything. He just went back to eating, quiet again.

And Lando hated that suddenly it felt like all of their reasons made sense.

— 

The air was different now. Cooler. Thinner. The sun still came through her window in the morning, but it didn’t cling to the walls the same way. The trees had started to shift, just barely, into that pre-autumn colour. And Amelia felt like she was holding her breath all the time. For something. For nothing.

She hadn’t spoken to Lando for days. Not since she'd sent him a photo of the coffee shop in town that had spelled her name wrong again, and all she got back was a laughing emoji. No reply. No question. Just that.

It felt like a door closing very slowly. 

She was sitting in the bay window of her bedroom, blanket around her shoulders, golf ball in one hand and her phone in the other. It was the fourth time she'd opened their chat and closed it again. The most recent messages sat there like ghosts. 

—

iMessage — 9:04am

Amelia Hope you’re not too tired from training. 

—

Read. Two days ago. No response.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure what to write that wouldn’t sound… needy. Or hurt. Or desperate. God, she hated the idea of being too much. It made her skin itch. She didn’t want to become exactly what people were always assuming that she’d be.

She pressed her palms to her eyes, trying to steady her breathing, her thoughts, her everything. But it hurt in a way she didn’t understand; this slow, quiet loss. It hurt in a way she didn’t have a name for. It felt a lot like emptiness.

“Don’t spiral,” she whispered to herself, rocking gently, rhythmically. “Don’t spiral. Don’t spiral.”

But it felt like she already was.

— 

Both McLaren cars DNF’d in Belgium; the first race back after the Summer break.

She’d written it down two hours before lights out — in the margin of an old notebook, under a page of technical notes she hadn’t meant to be looking at anymore. The exact reason. The probable lap. A strange little instinct that curled in her gut and told her today’s not going to go the way they want it to.

She closed the notebook and put it back in the drawer, and told herself it didn’t matter.

Nobody would ever know. Nobody would ever ask. Because she wasn’t in the garage. Wasn’t in the paddock. Wasn’t even watching from the hospitality suite like she always did, like clockwork.

She was in Woking. In her bedroom. As far from Lando’s garage, from the paddock, as she could possibly be.

And on the TV, when the Sky Sports commentator mentioned her absence like it was some small anomaly (“No sign of Amelia Brown in Norris’ McLaren garage today. Odd, considering she rarely misses a weekend”) she didn’t feel flattered or seen or missed.

She felt sick.

Like the air got thinner the second they said her name.

So she turned it off.

Just like that.

The screen went dark. The sound cut out. And for the first time in ten years, she didn’t watch the entire race.

Not because she didn’t want to. 

But because it hurt too much.

NEXT CHAPTER

[divinesangel]

— 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲’𝐫𝐞 𝐣𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬 [𝐝𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝]

pm me for an affordable, in-depth personal reading!

— 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐚 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞!

— 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟏

they won’t always say they’re jealous out loud. not at first. it’ll show in small ways. like a sudden shift in their energy, their tone getting a little sharper, or them going quiet for just a second too long. their eyes will give them away before their mouth ever does. they’ll look at you like they’re trying to figure something out, like they’re watching too closely.

they’ll try to act unbothered at first. play it cool. brush it off like it’s nothing. but underneath, they’ll be thinking a lot. overthinking, honestly. wondering if they have to compete for your attention, even if you’ve given them no reason to feel that way. because when they care, they care deeply. and jealousy, for them, comes from that same place. it’s not about control. it’s about fear. fear of losing something they’re scared to admit matters that much.

they might get more affectionate. clingier in a subtle way. reaching for your hand more, showing up where you are, giving compliments that feel extra specific, as if they’re reminding you that they know you better than anyone else. and they do. they just get scared sometimes. especially if they see you shining or connecting with others in a way that makes them feel replaceable.

sometimes, they’ll get defensive. tease you a little too hard. make sarcastic comments that feel light on the surface but have heat underneath. and if they really feel pushed, they might pull back completely. not because they’re done. but because they’re hurt. they’d rather retreat than admit they’re jealous. pride gets in the way. they don’t want to seem weak.

but once they feel safe again. once you look them in the eyes and show them there’s no threat, no competition, no one else taking up the space they want to hold. they soften. they open back up. maybe even admit it. “i was jealous,” they’ll say, half embarrassed, half honest. and it’ll mean something when they do. because they don’t share that part of themselves with just anyone.

when they’re jealous, it’s messy in a quiet way. not explosive. not toxic. just very human. they want to be your favorite person, and when they feel like they’re not, it rattles them. but if you love them right. if you show up, reassure, and keep things honest. they learn to manage it. and they’ll love you even more for making them feel chosen. again and again.

— 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟐

when your soulmate gets jealous, it’s not loud or obvious. they don’t yell, they don’t accuse, and they don’t start fights. instead, it shows up quietly. at first, they’ll act like everything is fine, maybe even go out of their way to seem extra calm or cheerful. they might smile the same way, say all the right things, but there’s something just a little off. something in their eyes, in the way they pause before answering, in the way they seem distracted when they usually give you their full attention.

they’re proud. they don’t want to be the kind of person who gets jealous. they might even feel silly for it. so they try to hide it, to bury the feeling under politeness and jokes and “it’s nothing, don’t worry about it.” they’re the kind of person who overthinks when they’re hurt. they’ll replay a conversation again and again in their head, wondering if they misunderstood, wondering if they’re being too sensitive. they don’t want to lose you, and that fear — no matter how small — makes them hesitate.

so instead of telling you right away, they pull back just a little. maybe they take longer to text you back. maybe they stop calling as often. maybe they stop asking so many questions about your day. not because they don’t care — but because they care too much, and they’re scared of what the answers might be. they’re trying to protect themselves from getting hurt.

and yet, at the same time, they’re still watching. still noticing. they catch every smile you give someone else, every time you talk about someone new, every inside joke they’re not part of. and it stings. not in a possessive way, but in that quiet ache of “i hope i’m enough.” they start to question things they never used to question. is this just a phase? are you drifting away? are they imagining it? they don’t want to ask, because they’re afraid the answer might confirm their worst fear.

but jealousy doesn’t mean they don’t trust you. it means they love you deeply, and that love feels a little fragile sometimes. it means you matter so much that the idea of losing your attention, your affection, your warmth — it shakes them. and when it gets too much, when holding it in feels heavier than letting it out, they’ll come to you. quietly, cautiously, with soft eyes and hesitant words. they’ll probably start with “this might sound dumb but…” or “i know it’s probably nothing…” because they’re not trying to start a fight. they’re just trying to be honest. they’re trying to say, “i care. i noticed. and it made me feel small for a second.”

and what they really want — what their heart is hoping for — is not an apology, not a promise, not even an explanation. they just want you to see them. to notice that they’re hurting. to hold space for their vulnerability. to say, even in a small way, “i’m not going anywhere. you still matter most.”

when they’re jealous, they don’t need drama or attention. they need tenderness. reassurance. a gentle hand, a kind word, a look that says, “you don’t have to worry. i’m still here.” because behind their quiet distance is someone who loves you more than they know how to say. someone who is learning, little by little, that love is safe here. and that they don’t have to hide their heart to keep it from breaking.

— 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟑

they’ll try to keep it together on the outside. they won’t always say what they’re feeling. instead, they’ll pull back just a little, like they’re trying to hide what’s bothering them. they’ll overthink it, replaying the moment in their head. they’ll feel this storm of emotion — insecurity, protectiveness, fear of losing you — but they’ll try to keep it controlled. they might go quiet, seem more serious, act a bit colder than usual. they’ll retreat a bit, like they’re trying to get themselves under control before speaking.

jealousy hits them hard, not because they don’t trust you, but because they care so much it scares them. you’re someone they feel deeply for. and that depth comes with fear — fear of not being enough, of losing what they love. it’s not that they want to control you. it’s just that when they care, they care fully. and they’ve likely been hurt before. their past might make them wary, guarded. they may try to act like they’re above those emotions, like they’re stronger than that — but inside, it eats at them.

when they’re jealous, they’ll be more observant. they’ll notice everything. who you talk to. how long. the tone in your voice. they won’t say it out loud, but their body will — a clenched jaw, arms crossed, that slight shift in their energy. they’ll want to know they’re still the one you want. and when they feel threatened, they’ll battle with themselves: do they say something or stay quiet and seem strong?

but even with all that, the truth is: they don’t want to hurt you or start a fight. they’ll try to work through it internally first. they’ll think about whether it’s their own insecurities talking. but if it gets too heavy, they’ll eventually open up — and when they do, it’ll be honest and raw. they’ll tell you they just didn’t know where they stood, or that they got scared. because jealousy, for them, is really just a fear of losing something they’ve finally found.

you’ll also notice that when they’re jealous, there’s a strong desire to prove something. to reclaim space in your heart. they’ll show up more — not with anger, but with intention. they’ll remind you of your bond, of what you share. maybe through affection, maybe through effort, maybe through a little possessiveness that’s more protective than toxic. they’ll want to make sure you still see them, still choose them.

they’re someone who feels big emotions in quiet ways. someone who leads with strength but underneath just wants to be loved deeply and not left behind. jealousy won’t turn them cruel — it’ll make them ache. but with time, trust, and reassurance, they’ll learn that love doesn’t have to come with fear. and you’ll see the light come back in them, softer, more secure — because when they feel safe, they shine.

𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 !

hi! it’s daphne here.

i’m currently offering personal readings for €7 and soulmate readings for €14 so don’t hesitate to send me a private message if you’re interested!

thank you for being here!

[iclimbtreestofeelalive]

okay, i've been seeing a lot of questions/confusion in the notes of this post, so this is (to the best of my ability) a reblog to hopefully clear up some of it. (if this turns out to be too long, i'll put most of it under a cut). here are the most important pieces of information.

Q: What drug was recalled?

A: This post is specifically about the recall on 1% testosterone gel (brand name androgel) produced by Strides Pharma. This recall affects specific batches of 2.5 gram and 5 gram gel packets. If your t-gel is in a different concentration percentage, was a different gram measurement, was produced by a different manufacturer, or is not in the recalled batch numbers, you're not affected by this recall. (Additionally, since I've seen people asking-- this does not affect injections at all.)

The recall was voluntarily initiated by Strides Pharma (this means that they weren't asked to recall the product by the government, but recalled it on their own). It was recalled due to the presence of benzene. It is a Class II recall, which means that according to the USFDA, the health effects are short-term and generally reversible.

Q: How do I know if I'm affected?

A: First, check the manufacturer of your testosterone gel. If it was manufactured by someone other than Strides Pharma, you are not affected. The next thing you should check is your concentration. This recall is for the 1% gel-- from what I've heard, 1.62% is a much more common concentration for transmascs/trans men.

Next, check the lot number and expiration date-- these can be found both on the box the medication came from and on the individual packet itself. Check them against the images in the original post. If you have one of the affected lots, keep reading for what to do. If you're still unsure, ask your pharmacy-- they should know whether you're part of the recall. Mine sent me a letter by mail telling me that I was part of it, which is how I first found out about it.

Q: What is benzene?

A: Benzene is a chemical which is used in the production of industrial products. It's found in car exhaust, gasoline fumes, and cigarettes-- it's also a well-known carcinogen, banned in the production of medications by the USFDA (This is why it was recalled, by the way-- not because it's flammable/hazardous in other ways. All testosterone gels are flammable because they contain high concentrations of alcohol, like hand sanitizers, which is why they all have warnings on the packets not to light candles or smoke while it's wet.) Most benzene exposure comes from inhalation in manufacturing jobs, car exhaust, and cigarette smoke. In high enough concentrations, over a long enough time, benzene raises your chances of blood disorders and leukemia specifically. As of right now, the FDA doesn't seem to be concerned that the concentration in the t-gel will have long-term health effects.

Q: What should I do if I am affected by this recall?

A: First: if you still have medication from one of the affected lots, do not use it. Don't panic if you've already used the medicine, but if you can avoid it, don't use any more. This is a recall for wholesalers and pharmacies, which means they're only asking for medication to be sent back from the people who sell it, not consumers. If I were you, I would keep the box and take pictures of the lot numbers in the event of a lawsuit or medical issue. If you have any left over, do not throw it out! Call your pharmacist to see about getting a refund/replacement medicine-- you may need to return the unused packets for this.

If you're worried about the recall, or if you're experiencing negative side effects you think are related to it, talk to your primary care provider and pharmacy. A lot of doctors have online patient portals you can ask questions through, free of charge-- take full advantage of that, if you can. Communicate with your doctor that this is something you've experienced, so that if you do have health issues, it's factored in as a possible cause.

Finally, don't panic. It's a frightening and irresponsible lapse in manufacturing safety, but if it's already happened, the best thing to do going forward is stay calm, document it for your own records, and tell your doctor if you have any concerns. Benzene is a chemical that's mostly dangerous in the long-term, and is usually inhaled when it does have adverse affects-- from what I can tell, you've probably had a similar amount of exposure through car exhaust and secondhand smoke.

Q: Am I safe to refill my t-gel prescription?

A: Yes, you should be! It's been recalled at the wholesaler and pharmacy level, so you absolutely shouldn't be getting contaminated medication from your pharmacy at this point. It can't hurt to check just in case, and if they do give you the recalled batch (you can check this with the brand, batch number, and concentration), there's been a mix-up within your pharmacy, and you should tell them before you use it. Otherwise, you should be absolutely safe.

This covers the main questions I've seen popping up. For everyone else who's still curious about other things (how did this happen? what about the other medications on this list? is estrogen also affected? is this a plot against trans men specifically?) please click the readmore! for everyone leaving after this half, xoxo love you all, please read all sources supplied to you in full before you get scared about the recalls. also stop telling everyone to dump all their ibuprofen and medication, it's probably not recalled.

Q: How did benzene end up in testosterone gel?

A: Benzene itself isn't used very often in medications (even besides being banned for use in its manufacturing). It is, however, an ingredient in Carbomer 940, a thickening agent for clear gels. Strides Pharma had been using Carbomer 940 apparently since at least 2023, making the benzene levels too high for the FDA's medication standards. Similar recalls for benzene have happened for acne products and sunscreens-- this isn't particularly unprecedented, but it is frustrating.

Q: What about the other medicines on this list?

A: There are other medication recalls on this list-- they are not due to benzene. This is a list of medication recalls across Washington State for various reasons (as an example: the ibuprofen recall everyone is freaking out about is from September last year, referred to specific lot numbers of the 'Dr Reddy's' brand in doses not typically available for commercial use, and was recalled due to low concentrations of 'unknown impurities'.) It's a good idea to check just in case, but don't get scared just because you saw the name of a medication you use on the list. It may not apply to you! Check the brand, concentration, and batch.

Q: Isn't it weird that this recall is happening for testosterone right after a lot of anti-trans legislation?

A: This one is, to the very best of my knowledge, a complete coincidence. We should keep in mind; androgel isn't actually primarily marketed and used for transgender people. Every mention of the recall I could find didn't mention transgender HRT whatsoever-- it did mention, though, that androgel is mostly prescribed and researched as HRT for cis men with hypergonadism. It's fairly unlikely that, going back to 2023, a pharmaceutical company would intentionally lace their medication with trace amounts of a common chemical in manufacturing, which already has a history of being used in products used on the skin, for the express purpose of (fairly ineffectively) poisoning a small percentage of their customers. Even more unlikely is that they would then blow the whistle on themselves and issue a voluntary recall.

It's understandable to be wary, especially with the current political and regulatory climate. But it's also incredibly important not to fall into a conspiracy mindset. What's much more likely is this: a large corporation, when given the option to either change the formulation of their medicine or make an expensive switch to a safer thickening agent, chose the option that saved them money for as long as they thought they could get away with it. This happens every day worldwide, and is the reason that regulations and safety checks are so important. This isn't a targeted or isolated incident, even though it is genuinely frustrating and frightening that regulations are failing in this way.

Q: I heard that estrogen patches are also being recalled-- am I safe if I use them?

A: Yeah, this has been going around on this post. From what I can tell, this is a misunderstanding-- there was a recall for estradiol patches that went into affect in 2021 that was on the website linked on the original post. The patches expired in 2022, and while the recall is still in affect, I doubt that there are any in circulation (due to being expired), and the reason for recall was 'possibility of defective patch', which I assume means issues with absorption. There's no danger on that front, you're safe!

The other recall I can think of this being in regards to is a more recent recall from this February (linked here) for 0.1% estradiol gel. This recall is for possibly defective packaging, allowing for the ethanol in the gel to evaporate prematurely. This was another voluntary recall that also shouldn't pose any active danger, though you might check to see if you were part of this one, just because it might have lessened the efficacy of the medication.

(Everything after these aren't urgent-- they're just questions/misunderstandings that personally amused me or I felt interested in answering further. I'll probably be a bit more flippant in these, sorry!)

Q: OP and their boyfriend both got letters from their pharmacy about this!!

A: Not true! Only OP's boyfriend did. (I know this because I'm OP's boyfriend! Hi sweetheart, sorry for putting an essay on your post.) Check the notes for images of the letter from CVS, I saw another user reblog it with theirs, too. Sidecast was very sweet and asked if she could put out a PSA on Tumblr since I was upset about the small shock of being poisoned by my medication (which I have since calmed down from). Everyone say thank you!!

Q: How do we know that this source is legit and not AI?

A: You read it with your eyeballs and see that it's from a reliable source, that people have received letters about it from their pharmacies, and that multiple news outlets of varying repute have covered this. Or use Google.

Q: I still feel like this was intentional...

A: You're free to feel that way! It's probably wrong, though, and conspiracy logic is a dangerous thing to get lost in. I recommend looking at it like this: why did this recall happen? Would it actually benefit anyone to do this on purpose? How would it benefit them? Are there any other recalls happening at this point in time? Is this more easily explained by corporate greed and the loosening of regulations? And of course the million dollar question: Would a corporation whose only purpose is to make as much money as possible put themselves on the line for lawsuits and losses (dead people don't buy much medicine) just to possibly take out an *extremely* small percentage of an already tiny group? I personally think that it's very, very unlikely.

Q: Why was only testosterone mentioned in the original post if there are so many other medicines on the list?

A: Because I didn't get a letter for any of the other ones; I only got a letter for the testosterone. Also, the rest didn't have benzene, which was what the original post was about. Also not all of the medication recalls on that list were up to date! Pick your poison.

Q: Why aren't pharmacies contacting people about this?

A: They are! That's how I found out in the first place. But pharmacies aren't infallible-- the recall went out early this month, and I only got my letter on the 16th. The postal service is moving slowly right now, pharmacies are swamped, and recalls are increasing as regulations fall. Frustrating and irresponsible? Yes. Intentional malice? Probably not.

Q: Do not put this on your dick

A: Yeah. I mean, don't put any t-gel on your dick, but this especially. Thanks for the heads up man, very helpful.

In conclusion: OPEN THE LINKS ON THE POSTS YOU REBLOG. DO NOT TRUST WORD OF MOUTH FROM TUMBLR USERS! FACT CHECK AND READ THE SOURCES SUPPLIED TO YOU IN FULL! IBUPROFEN IS NOT GOING TO KILL YOU, READ THE RECALL LIST AND THEIR DROP-DOWN MENUS OR YOU ARE GOING TO FREAK YOURSELF OUT! love you all. xoxo

hey americans there is a recall on testosterone gel because they found benzene in it! please check the lot numbers on your batches, benzene is really not something you want to be rubbing into your skin, also you might be eligible for compensation because this is just insane what the fuck

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[ramyeonguksu]

So. FFXIV released a new mogstation outfit that's Korean called the Far Eastern Performer's Attire. Yippee! Pungmulnori is one of my favorite things about Korean culture so I was very happy that it's an outfit I could wear in the game

Except

Why the fuck is it called Hingan?

Hingashi is clearly based on Japan, so calling an outfit that is KOREAN Hingan is extremely disrespectful to the history between the two nations, being Japan's attempt to erase Korean identity/culture during their occupation of Korea before and during WWII

This is only an issue in the English store, by the way. The French/German/Japanese shop listings only mention Far Eastern.

Not to mention that the items are also listed using Japanese terms!!! What the hell??? (EDIT: I have discovered that the other localizations also used Japanese names for the items, but their store listings don't say it's Hingan)

Ao Dai is listed in their Vietnamese name. Hell, the Mun'gaek Uibok is romanized Korean!

Square Enix mentioned how with Dawntrail they're placing greater care into the cultures they're taking inspiration from, yet the English localization team turns around and does this shit.

If you have a forums account, please boost the thread I created based on this, and share this around so that others can see!